


Unheavenly Creatures

by random0factor



Category: Half Live VR But The AI Is Self-Aware
Genre: Angst, Background Coomer/Bubby, Bank Robbery, Bank robbery gone wrong, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gun Violence, Hospitals, I know that's just fanfiction in general, M/M, Temporary Character Death, The Science Team will be making multiple appearances, Things will get worse before they get better, Trans Gordon Freeman, Vomit Mention, Wish Fulfillment, alcohol ment, drug ment, only took four chapters, that character death is finally temporary huh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26266384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/random0factor/pseuds/random0factor
Summary: “You know the fucking plan?” Forzen asked.“We know the fucking plan.” Benrey said. Gordon nodded next to him. Benrey adjusted a strap across his chest.“Good. We can’t afford to fuck this one up.” Forzen gestured. “If we get what we need out of this one, we’ll be riding pretty - almost good enough to retire.”Gordon is given a second lease on life and a chance to right the errors of his past. He doesn't really have a choice, actually. It's better than bleeding out on a bank floor.
Relationships: Benrey & Forzen (Half-Life), Benrey/Gordon Freeman, Bubby/Dr. Coomer (Half-Life), Gordon Freeman & Forzen
Comments: 114
Kudos: 212





	1. Blood Red Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bank robber AU that nobody asked for! But me. I'm doing this for me.
> 
> Let me know if there's anything else I should tag, any warnings that need to be mentioned. I have no posting schedule and nothing past this finished yet, but I have everything plotted out up here. *taps noggin

“You ready for this?” Benrey asked. He adjusted his straps, checked his keychains, checked his pockets. He was full of nervous energy. No matter how many times they did this, he couldn’t keep calm. Couldn’t keep himself from - from shaking out of his skin. He kept his skeleton under control. It would be fine.

Gordon gave him a look. Quirked eyebrow, but not because he was amused, or anything. Gordon pulled out his earphone and stared at him.

“You - uh - you fuckin, uh, ready for this?” Benrey managed to get out.

Why the fuck was it always so much harder to talk to the man when he had his full attention?

“Shut the fuck up, get your shit, and be ready.” Forzen slapped something against Benrey’s back. Benrey almost stumbled forward, but he didn’t want to knock into Gordon. Didn’t want to give the man another reason to resent him.

“Shut the up fuck yourself, man.” Benrey turned away, facing away from Gordon. He didn’t need Gordon to see his blush again. He always managed to look amused when Benrey blushed. Maybe… Maybe Gordon did need to see his blush again.

Paper in his face. He stared at it, then took it from Gordon’s hand. “The fuck is this?” He asked, looking at Gordon. Gordon shrugged and gestured at Forzen, who was fixing something on the front of his vest.

_Kick me_. The paper fucking said Kick me.

“I’ll fucking kick your ass, man -” Benrey stood up, tried to tower over Forzen, but Forzen turned and _glared_ at him. He didn’t back down because he was afraid of getting his ass kicked - no, he was never afraid of getting his ass kicked, or getting shot, or pain - he, uh, backed down because it was almost go time. Right.

“You know the fucking plan?” Forzen asked. He was _not_ in a good mood today. Who pissed in his cheerios?

“We know the fucking plan.” Benrey said. Gordon nodded next to him. Benrey adjusted a strap across his chest.

“Good. We can’t afford to fuck this one up.” Forzen gestured. “If we get what we need out of this one, we’ll be riding pretty - almost good enough to retire.”

“Good.” It didn’t come out of Gordon’s mouth, but they both knew what the gesture meant. “Sync.” He fingerspelled.

“Sync.” Benrey repeated out loud. The first five of these, Gordon had glared at him, like he was an idiot. Now he just ignored it. Probably realized it was how Benrey processed stuff. Whatever, didn’t matter. 

“When your watch says 3:30, we’re coming in, ready or not.” Forzen growled, pointing at Gordon. “Be ready.”

“I’m never not.” Gordon signed, ending with Forzen’s name - An American Sign Language F, that turned into the bird. Affectionate. 

-

Gordon walked into the bank like a man on a mission, looking for a mortgage or a credit card or whatever the fuck else a professional late-20’s man did in a bank. He got the attention of the one security guard and pulled him to the side, looking confused and flustered and embarrassed. Gordon’s superpower was just - looking so _normal_ he could disarm people. His hands moved in a blur as he tried to explain some gibberish to the guard, pulling the guard out of the way of the actual bank front and to the side - towards the back offices. The safe.

“He’s a fucking pro.” Forzen grumbled, adjusting the gun strapped to his front. Benrey did the same, just for something to do.

“Damn straight he is.” Benrey grinned. He’d been the one to suggest bringing Gordon on, after all. Made him feel proud that he was helpful.

“Shut up.”

“Fuck you.”

They watched as Gordon moved to a window, a bit further to the side than they would have liked, but he was able to give them the info they needed.

Two guards, one in front of him and one near the counter. Three tellers. Two bankers - or whatever the fuck they were. Simple alarm system, probably the same type that called the police with the press of a button - Freeman could take that out, no problem. He just needed the time to find the panel.

“1:30.” Forzen said, standing up. “Time to get going.”

“Uh, right.” Benrey said. He stood up and stretched. They were about a block over, up on some mid-rise apartment roof. Thanks to their - uh - _binoculars_ , they were able to see almost a quarter of a mile away with no problem. 360 no-scope. Easy.

Benrey followed Forzen’s lead and jumped over the ledge, landing not too far away from a dumpster. Thankfully, he hadn’t landed _in_ the dumpster.

“Need a hand?” He offered, not bothering to hide his smirk. Forzen’s outfit looked ridiculous covered in filth.

“Fuck. Off.” Forzen slapped his hand away. Fucker was touchy today, what the hell? “I don’t have time for your bullshit.” Forzen snapped.

“Fucking fine, whatever.” Benrey mumbled. It wasn’t like this was a serious run anyway. They didn’t have to 100% this. It would just be nice if they did.

“Masks.” Forzen said as they approached the entrance to the alley.

“Sha.” Benrey pulled his mask down. It was like a riff on Jason Voorhees’ mask, but covered in blood stains and paint. Green rivulets masked the actual lines of his face, their oddly rippled edges making his face appear smaller and larger and out of scale, masking his identity further. He’d added the phrase _“Call Your Mother”_ across the front of the mask - red, but not blood - as a last chilling reminder to those who would see it. They should take this last chance to be a good child. Say bye-bye.

Forzen’s mask was simple. It was a burlap-looking misshapen thing with eyeholes filled with black goggle lenses, twine wrapped in weird places. Made him look like a demented scarecrow. There was fake hair poking out at the bottom - used to be longer, before Benrey accidentally singed it. Whatever. Forzen didn’t even notice.

Benrey and Forzen walked through traffic to the bank, not bothering to look either way. It wasn’t like getting hit by a car would injure them at all. The car, on the other hand... 

“Everybody down on the ground, now, everybody down, down, down, down!” Forzen’s voice was distorted through the speakers that covered his body under his outer shirt. Benrey barely had to gesture with his gun; civilians fell to the ground around him, supplicants to worship his passing feet. He stood back and let Forzen command the group.

One of the tellers slapped something, shaking. Benrey and Forzen both looked at her, her hand repeatedly pressing a button under the desk.

“Nobody’s coming.” Forzen’s voice, even through the distortion, carried a smugness. Maybe it was the careless canter of his walk, the slant of his shoulders as he carded through the crowd. Maybe it was the tilt of his head. He carelessly swung the gun back and forth, approaching the security guard Gordon had abandoned.

“Nobody has to get hurt.” Benrey called, pulling the attention of the crowd to him - to the doorway - to freedom. He smirked under his mask. He’d already fixed a bar to the door handles, and the glass in the frames was all but bulletproof. Nobody was getting past him.

His distraction gave Forzen the chance to loop a rope around the neck of the security guard. The sudden choking noise pulled everyone’s eyes away from Benrey and toward the guard, who was pulled around the corner of the lobby, into the hallway, toward Gordon and the safety deposit boxes.

“Except for him. He signed up for it, you know.” Benrey paused. “He - uh - didn’t fucking have to. Nobody has to be a hero.”

“Why?” Somebody asked. He didn’t bother answering, just shifted his hips and his gun and wiggled his finger.

“Shh.” he hissed against the mask, dramatically uncurling his trigger finger in front of his face. “Good part’s coming. Don’t wanna miss it.”

There was silence in the lobby. Everybody sat, tense with anticipation and fear. One of the girls started crying. Maybe the same one who had asked why. He didn’t know. He just knew his job was to make sure nobody got in, nobody got out.

There was something in the deposit boxes they’d been… _hired_ to grab. They were allowed to take and keep anything else as long as they got whatever was in the box. Benrey didn’t give a fuck what was in the box. He just wanted the payoff.

He had it all planned. Between him and Gordon, and even Forzen if he wanted, they could live easy. Move to some country - someplace in South America, or even Asia - live cheap for a few years, then come back. Gordon probably had family somewhere he’d want to see by then. The money wouldn’t be enough to live on in America, but that’s where the out-of-the-country comes into play. They could invest in random shit - uh, divorcify their portfolios - and make out like kings.

Benrey didn’t know much about retirement, but he could imagine it being nice. Especially if he had high-speed internet and a nice gaming rig.

He was busy wondering what kind of games Gordon would play - He didn’t seem much like a FPS kinda guy, but strategy seemed too _generic_ for him - when the lights flickered. It wasn’t rhythmic - it was kinda random and seizure-inducing, honestly. Benrey rubbed at the mask around his eyes and looked away from the fire alarms, which started screeching. What the fuck? Did this mean cops were on the way?

“Who the _fuck_ is doing that?” He asked the room at large. He took a step forward - the group that was huddled in front of the counter quivered as one, shrinking away from the man in the mask.

Then, the unmistakable _POP_ of a gun. Then one more. Then another.

Benrey felt his insides chill, spinning inside him like the opposite of a rotisserie chicken. A froze-tisserie chill-ken. Whatever the fuck it was, he felt his limbs lock, simultaneously frozen with shock and tingling with numbness. He looked to the hallway - took a step -

Forzen stepped around the corner, two duffle bags over his shoulder. “There was another guard. Tripped the alarm. Got him, but not before he got G-Man.” Forzen shoved one of the bags at Benrey and shot the window next to the door, stepping out into the street. People screamed, but it didn’t register in Benrey’s mind.

“Wait - what?” Benrey turned, dropped the duffle bag. He took a step toward the window, not pausing when Forzen swung the gun at his head. He ducked, not wanting his mask to get cracked. 

“Get. The. Fucking. Bag. and _fucking_ follow me.” Forzen’s voice was tense and flat at the same time. Benrey bent over and grabbed the bag - it was the one Gordon normally carried - followed Forzen through the window. Out into the air, down into the sewers. 

“You - no, he can’t be dead.” Benrey found his voice what felt like hours later, sliding down some sick grate into another, larger tunnel. It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d crawled through shit. The smell didn’t even bother him anymore.

“I saw it happen, fucker.” Forzen didn’t sound happy. He was probably unhappy to lose their engineer - this was the last one, though. Why?

“I - I gotta go back. Gotta check on him.” Benrey almost dropped the bag right there, turned on his heel.

“And get caught?” Forzen’s voice stopped Benrey again. Of course, Forzen was the voice of reason. “Go back to the fucking desert and their experiments and their shitty fucking way of life? You want that?”

“... No.” Benrey looked up. Was he looking for heaven? Or just a way out? A way back to his friend?

“I didn’t fucking think so. Come on, we’ve got a client to meet.” 

-

Gordon’s three piece suit - a graduation present from his mentor - was getting wet. The light grey of his undershirt was half blue, half red, the colors seeping through the fine wool of his black suit. Soaking him with blood and the ink packets the banks put on money.

Lights flashed, flickered, like dancing flames in the distance. His unseeing eyes didn’t need the broken glasses anymore. They’d been knocked off, thrown across the hall by something he hadn’t seen. Ironic, that.

A single bullet hole above his right eye was proof enough that he wasn’t getting up. He didn’t need a mask - this had been the last run, after all. He’d planned on leaving the country anyway.

… Why did his wants and plans matter now?

No breath passed his lips. The shrill ringing of the alarms fell on deaf ears. His hands - once so full of life, his main way of communicating with the world - lay limply on the ground, not even by his side peacefully, but half thrown in startled punches and pitches that never landed. 

The police were coming. It was only a matter of time.

…

Come on. Get up, now. No need to wait around.

Gordon’s eyes, wide and vacant in his still face, flickered. Blinked.


	2. Time Consumer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _God grant you one wish, to turn back the time. Correct and create, making sense of-_

What could he have done better?

Perfect his run. In his head. His 100% safe-follower run.

It was like those older video games, where companions weren’t immortal and could get into all kinds of shit without the main character there to save them. Like a shittier version of The Last Of Us, where Gordon - Ellie - Freeman could trigger battles and mess his shit up before he could get to the next save spot. Where the companion could get hurt. Where his companion could run into the line of fire and not make it out. Where Gordon could -

Whatever, he’d never played The Last Of Us. He dealt with enough zombies in Black Mesa. 

He played the day of the bank robbery over and over again in his head. He wished he could turn time back, correct the path of the day, create a new future for Gordon. He went through the motions. Getting ready. Chatting with Gordon. Watching his hands do their thing. Scouting from the roof. Falling down. What would he change?

Now that he was doing it again, he pulled Forzen away from where he had jumped before, making sure he landed with him beside the dumpster. Forzen always got sloppy when he was upset and he was more upset than normal that day, and if he was a little less upset - if Benrey had been able to keep him from being so pissed off - he might have been more on top of it and he might have saved Gordon.

So he kept Forzen out of the dumpster. Put his mask on before Forzen asked. Walked an extra step closer to Forzen. If he had been better, Gordon might have survived. Might not have ever been in danger in the first place.

He was supposed to watch the door, but what if he’d gone down the hallway? He could have kept an eye on things from the doorway. His finger would have been on the trigger anyway. He could have commanded the room from anywhere. He could have herded everybody into a back office. He could have - He could have stopped it.

He was responsible for Gordon’s death. There was no other way to put it.

And the thing about Benrey was he didn’t _like_ responsibility. He didn’t like guilt. He didn’t like any of this fucked up bullshit that he was dealing with right now.

But he couldn’t stop his brain from running through the scenario One. More. Time.

Each time he started a little bit further back. The gig before. The gig before _that_. The time they broke into a police station and trashed all the evidence, burning the whole thing to the ground. They’d taken all the contraband they wanted - guns, armor, things to keep them safe. Hell, Gordon had taken a laminator. He’d had no idea what the fuck it was at first, but eventually he’d started making fake IDs. Made getting hotel rooms a whole hell of a lot easier. Gordon was always paranoid about being caught for some reason, even after he’d accepted that nothing would go back to normal.

Back further. The first gig. He’d been the one to call Gordon, asking if he was looking for work. If he was free to help.

Gordon said yes.

He was doubly responsible for Gordon’s death.

He spun back in time. He took steps in reverse through the sewers, breathing out sick sewage and breathing in right decisions, correcting the way his feet fell. Back further. Through the window. Back through the doors. He watched Gordon’s hands in slow motion, in reverse, backwards and forwards, long distance from that roof. He knew each little flick of the wrist. Knew them by heart.

Back to the closet they’d gotten ready in. The van they’d driven in. The last time he’d said a word to Gordon. The last word he’d said. _Sync_.

He was sinking.

Further back. Further into the past. Before the first gig. Before Benrey reached out and soaked both of his hands in blood. Again. God only knows how much blood on his hands wasn’t his.

They’d known each other at Black Mesa. He was sinking underground, into the deep recesses of the labs and lairs that shitty scientists called “offices”, where they kept their arcane secrets, penning missives from their ivory caves and “contributing to society” with their shitty exclusionary bullshit. 

He tried to only remember the good, but he was stuck with the bad because he was bad, wasn’t he? He had cursed Gordon. He’d been good - so good - before Benrey had stained him. Between Gordon and Tommy and Coomer and Bubby, there was nothing they couldn’t do. Benrey had to go and fuck it up. 

And he’d done it on purpose.

He didn’t know. But that wasn’t right, was it?

He’d always suspected. But now, now that Gordon was dead and gone...

Did it matter?

Benrey took it one more time, from the top.

He had to perfect his run.

-

“I’ve found the most interesting intern!” Coomer bellowed. Man, he didn’t know what volume control was, did he?

“That’s - that’s good!” Tommy. Who else could it be?

“I hope he’s less flammable than the last one.” Bubby grumbled. This was even before the tele-pyrokinesis. Bubby just liked setting shit on fire. Sometimes “shit” included “interns”. Sometimes it included other scientists. Sometimes it included Benrey. All in good fun, as Coomer would say.

“I hope he’s not boring like you guys.”

“Benrey, that’s - that’s not nice!” Tommy admonished. Benrey shrugged.

“The only one-a you that’s, uh, worth my time, Tommy? Tommy-gun? Is you.” Benrey leaned his head onto Tommy’s shoulder. Bubby kicked him under the table. Everybody knew Tommy liked mean people. Coomer wasn’t mean, but Bubby and Benrey were mean as hell, and nobody else wanted to be around them.

Hence, the one-empty-table buffer around them in the cafeteria.

Benrey opened his mouth to poke more fun at Bubby - the man was just so fun to poke at, popping like frustrated bubbles - when, “Ah! The man of the hour himself!” Coomer stood up, waving his arms. “Hello, Gordon!”

Nerd. Scrawny little nerd-boy. Was that a fucking rattail? When was the last time those things had been remotely fashionable? Star Wars: Episode 1? Hell, they weren’t in vogue then. They were just something nerdy little boys did for fun. Fucking hell, the kid was as cleanshaven as a… hairless mango.

“Gordon Freeman! This is Bubby, my life partner!” The little nerd blushed. Holy shit. People still did that? This group didn’t have any shame, and nobody else was interesting enough to look at, so it’s not like Benrey knew. Hopefully Gordon could be whipped into shape. Whip all that shame right out of him.

“N-nice to meet you.” Gordon held out his hand. Bubby stared at it, frowning. Coomer elbowed Bubby lightly.

“... Pleasure is all mine.” Bubby grouched. Ooh, that upset nerdy boy! Manners not good enough for him? That little tinny voice that came out of Gordon’s throat pissed Benrey off for some reason, too. It wasn’t what he expected. Bubby seemed bothered by it too. Though, maybe he was just pissed off for no reason. That was more like Bubby. A tinderbox ready to burst into flames whenever the opportunity presented itself. He didn’t actually seem pissed, though. Whatever. Benrey looked back at the nerd.

“This is Tommy! He works in Biological Research, and I’m sure he’ll be a wealth of information!”

“It’s - it’s really nice to meet you, Mr. Freeman!” Tommy stuck out his hand, and either the hand or the greeting did something to make Mr. Meekman stand up straighter. He shook Tommy’s hand with vigor.

“This is Security Officer Benrey Stong, but we just call him Benrey!” Coomer introduced him as well. Wait, what? He wasn’t part of this group of losers, he was way cooler than any of them.

“Nice to meet you.” Gordon held his hand out. 

“You - uh, you wash that recently?” Benrey asked. Coomer’s smile, coming from behind Gordon, got a little tight. He cracked his eyes open just a little bit. Benrey felt a chill go down his spine.

“Uh - yeah, just a few minutes ago.” Gordon looked at his hand, Benrey’s face. “Why? Do you think they’re dirty?” Did he mean his hands or the people whose hands he’d just shaken?

“I’m not dirty!” Bubby turned and snapped, not at Gordon, but at _Benrey_. “What are you implying?”

“Benrey, it’s not nice to - to call people dirty!” Tommy protested.

Wait, how the fuck had this happened? He was implying Gordon Nerdman was dirty, not them! What the fuck?! How had they turned it around on him? How had _Gordon_ turned it around on him?

“Officer Boper?” Coomer said. It was deep. It was… almost a growl. At least one of them knew what he was implying.

“Uh, put’er there, I guess.” Benrey held out his hand. Not for a handshake. He fucking hated handshakes. He waited for the down-low high five. Come on, kid, it’s not like it’s rocket science.

Gordon grinned. He fucking _grinned._ That. Fucker.

He didn’t remember if it was a high five or a handshake they did, but Gordon was a part of their group after. Benrey had to admit, anybody who could turn two strangers around on him with a sentence had his respect. That kind of rewriting of the social contract had to be rewarded. It was the same kind of diversion that Benrey relied on for his security work. “Security” “work”.

Benrey watched as the scrawny young man grew and filled out. He thought it made sense; interns did all the heavy lifting for the old-ass ancient scientists in the complex. Later, he’d learn it was because of the drugs he was taking. A drug cocktail directly from Tommy and Darnold. Gordon was braver than Benrey, at that point. He knew it. He wouldn’t touch those ‘potions’ with a ten foot tentacle.

“So, uh, what are you doing for Christmas?” Tommy asked. Somewhere around November, he remembered. Tommy was asking the table at large, of course. If Benrey could change the past he’d answer “Whatever you’re doing.” He didn’t go to that one. One more chance to hang out with Tommy. A drop in the bucket, but if he was getting 100% anyway...

“I’ve got some stuff back up north to take care of.” Gordon signed. He looked sad. Aw, poor baby. Benrey remembered making fun of him for having a family? Maybe he wouldn’t do that the second time around. He knew more about Gordon’s family now. He didn’t deserve that.

“I’ll be accompanying Gordon back to MIT to help him in deciding what to do with his final semester!” Coomer grinned.

“I’ll come to your place.” Bubby grumbled. Tommy brightened, started chattering instantly about dinner plans and gift exchanges.

Benrey hadn’t said anything. He looked up from his PSP, but didn’t say anything. He should have gone. Made up for his escape a little bit, preemptively.

For Christmas that year, Tommy got him a Playstation 3. He and Gordon added each other on PS+, even though Gordon had shit taste in games. Benrey used what little disposable income he had to flesh out Gordon’s game library when shit went on sale.

Fucker hadn’t even played _Spyro_ , like, any of them. Said his parents were against video games, against magic, against fun. If Benrey could fix it, he’d stop making fun of him and he’d just play the damn games with him. There was no reason to tease and shit.

When Gordon came back that next summer, he was a completely different man. Benrey could see where he’d filled out - a beard grew on his chinny-chin-chin, not just the pathetic stubble he’d had. Bubby held him down and Benrey had shaved weird designs in it once with a nose hair trimmer. After that, Gordon kept it at a reasonable length. His muscles were bigger, which Benrey thought was hilarious because he wasn’t an intern anymore. Why would he need muscles when he’d have interns to move shit around for him?

Then again, looking at Coomer…

Coomer was also a different man. He’d taken Gordon fully under his wing, a mother hen. Cluck cluck. Benrey remembered making fun of their relationship. Maybe he’d been jealous? He didn’t have parents, or even a mom. He and Bubby were pretty similar in that regard.

This is when things start to get weird for him, though. Because if he could fix things, he’d have built a closer relationship with Gordon. They got closer eventually, but at first, it was like, what were they? They annoyed the piss out of each other. It was mostly Benrey’s fault for not. Like. Leaving Gordon alone. He’d pester him for shit, ID’s, money, classified scientific secrets… you know. Just fun stuff between bros. 

Gordon was just as immature as Benrey was back then. Gordon was always so serious - like, dry. Dryer than the desert they were stuck in. Unless Gordon was trying to be funny, then he was just such an absolute idiot. It made Benrey laugh back then, the stupid sense of humor he had. Gordon was such a total dork. He did stupid shit, laughed at the stupidest shit. He’d watch Youtube videos by himself before anybody else got to the cafeteria table. Benrey made fun of every. Single. One of them. He’d recommend videos only to call them trash when he saw Gordon watching them. Then they’d talk about the videos. Gordon was using sign language pretty exclusively by then.

Signed something about the potions ruining his vocal chords. Darnold kept trying, but the issue never got better. Coomer suggested surgery, and Gordon agreed, but… he’d never had a chance to schedule it. Another thing Benrey had fucked up.

He wished he could speedrun the friendship, choose all the right dialogue options, get all the points and the high score. The faster he became friends with Gordon in his mind, the less chances he had to fuck everything up. 

On the darkest nights, his brain told him that if he got too close, too quickly, Gordon would drop him. He’d find other people to be friends with because who the fuck would want to be friends with the outcast security guard? Who would want to stay friends with the Science Team? They’re the outcasts for a reason.

He wondered what Gordon thought about him, back then. He’d grown a lot in the past two years. Now he was - well. Not mature, that’s for damn sure. But he was better than he had been. He listened. He grew. He grew with Gordon.

His mind skipped the little things between “meeting” and “knowing” and “growing”. He knew what it was speeding towards. He couldn’t stop it. It was like a scripted cut scene. There was nothing he could do to stop it from playing out exactly how the universe wanted it to.

Because it was all his fault, wasn’t it? The reason Gordon was dead. The reason he’d accepted the first gig. The reason he’d been fired.

_What could Benrey have done better? Done right?_

Because he was triply responsible for Gordon’s death. The three evils battled in him. What could he have done?

… He could have not gotten Gordon fired. Well, that was technically on Gordon, too, cause he took the fall for Tommy. Benrey was pretty sure.

But still.

He didn’t have to fuck with the experiment. No matter what it was, it wasn’t worth… what happened. Nothing was worth Gordon dying. Hell, Benrey was willing to march back into Black Mesa if it meant bringing Gordon back. Maybe he should. Maybe Black Mesa would be able to make use of his body, make it useful, use it to bring Gordon back the way he came back every damn time something happened.

He remembered Gordon’s green eyes. Even through the glasses, even through the HEV suit helmet, he remembered those green eyes. Green like the triangle on a PS3 controller. Green like go. Green like _Get the fuck out of here, Freeman! What are you waiting on?_

Gordon had been frozen like a baby deer, about to be pounced on by some shitty predator.

Benrey had been able to save him that time.

Why couldn’t he do it again?

He played the bank robbery over in his head again, starting from the top.

Dramatic entrance, get their attention, keep their attention. Lights. Alarm. _Pop pop pop._

Three pops.

Two bags. To the sewers. To their client. Get their payday, plus everything else in the security deposit boxes and whatever they’d grabbed from the safe. 

One metal box full of manilla envelopes in exchange for enough money to fuck off and find out what home ownership was like. What easy living could be like.

He played the bank robbery over again in his head. One more time. With feeling.

Proud entrance. He’d done it so many times it was like second nature. Take advantage of that social script to keep people complacent. Just like Gordon had. Keep their attention. That was easy, he was an attention whore. He wanted their attention. Hadn’t been hugged enough as a kid. Or at all, really.

Smug with power. Careless. Carefree. He was immortal, for fuck’s sake. No bullets could hurt him. Just Gordon. He’d been too careless. Too smug. Too proud.

Surprise with the lights. That was the first sign of something going wrong. Confusion. Perplexion. 

Then the pops. Benrey had never felt dread before. He had been worried, cautious, even anxious once or twice. Black Mesa had some scary shit. But dread was a new beast. It was a sick sludge monster, clinging to him, casting Slow and Drain Endurance and Silence on him, keeping him from moving, from thinking, from speaking. He counted three pops, and before he could count to three again, Forzen was there, bags in his hand and gun in his hand and the cold that started in Benrey’s stomach was working up his chest and spine and he had to find Gordon-

-

The hotel - sorry, _motel_ room was like all the other ones. Weird-ass carpet, sheets that probably weren’t cleaned often enough, beds that definitely weren’t cleaned often enough, TVs that never worked unless you fucked with them for like ten minutes. They all blended together, like the days since the last heist. He let Forzen lead the way, wherever they were going. He’d said something about Redwood trees, the northwest, rain. Something completely different than what they’d ever seen before. Benrey was ready for a change. Every time he closed his eyes he saw orange.

Benrey wanted to fall into the void again. The fugue state he’d lived in for the first day after the heist. He’d been able to push everything out of his head and just… exist. He followed Forzen to the end of the earth, stepped off willingly. He had fallen this far. Why couldn’t he just keep sinking into the inky black, so far that he couldn’t come back?

It wasn’t sleep. Sleep was restful. This shit was a wringer he kept going through for no reason, pushing himself to fix his life, fix Gordon’s life, fix all the shit he’d done wrong. Everything was his fault. 

“Didja gettem?”

“Huh?” Forzen looked over from his game. He was good at fixing the random TV issues they had on the road. Benrey only ever paid attention when Forzen was cursing so much it was more likely for him to demolish the TV’s instead of fix them, but he was getting better. He had a knack for it.

“Did you get him?” Benrey asked again, slower.

“Who?” A pop. The gun in Forzen’s hand went off. _Headshot!_ The game declared, like it was an achievement. It just made Benrey’s stomach turn, like he’d eaten something Bubby had cooked.

“The guy who shot Freeman.”

“What are you talking about?” Forzen shot again, another virtual pop. The guns in video games never sounded real. “The security guard? Yeah, I got ‘em. He was gonna get me next.” Another pop.

“Good.” Benrey waited for the sun to come up. Another day of travel.

Maybe the redwoods would be green enough to keep his mind off of orange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of angst! I would be sorry but... I wrote it. Y'know. Also, I know Bubby is the one who does 100% runs, but just go with me on this one. Benrey, the ADHD hero he is, trying to focus on a game enough to 100% it is too good of a mental image. Also, there's a lot of repetition. Let me know if I overdid it. It's easy to get too wrapped up in this stuff as a creative-wank writer and not realize that it doesn't *actually* work. Also if there's any errors!


	3. World Of Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is the hidden truth, The world between the lines - There is no understanding us..._

It felt like swimming through soup. Probably a thick one, like chowder, or like… potato soup. It took a few days for him to get through it before he was in a different soup, then something more like… water. He hoped it was water. That was the most normal thing to swim in, according to Feetman.

“Chicken noodle?” He asked his reflection, watching the bowl spin in the microwave. They’d splurged and decided to stay at one of the hotels with like, actual hallways. A _hotel_ , not a _motel_ , according to Gordo Feetman. 

“What the hell are you asking me for?” Forzen asked from the bed.

“Wasn’t asking.” Benrey smacked his lips. “Least not you, maybe the universe?”

“... What did the universe say?” Forzen’s question was punctuated by the microwave beeping.

“Yes.” Benrey pulled the little bowl out, not bothering to wait for it to cool down. He tossed Gordon’s bag out of the easy chair onto his bed. He slurped loudly and climbed into the chair, watching Forzen play… some weird game. It wasn’t a shooter, though, and that’s what mattered.

“Cool.” Forzen laughed before jumping off some insanely high building in his game, falling to his death.

“Pretty pog.” Benrey slurped. Loudly. Obnoxiously. And if he thought about Gordon, he kept it to himself, at least for the night. He'd keep Gordon with him for the night.

-

They debated buying a car. They had the cash, but they didn’t have the uh… personhood to not get arrested for driving without like, real licenses. Instead, they walked most of the way wherever they were going. Sometimes they got picked up. Most of the time, it was just walking, though.

So they were walking.

Yup.

Walking down another highway, away from Gordon, away from the cowboys of Dallas or whatever the fuck. Benrey was tired of walking, but it wasn’t like there was much else he could do. They couldn’t teleport with much more than they could carry with their own four hands, and there was no way he was _eating_ all this money. For one, he might digest it. No go. You don’t literally eat your profits.

For two, cash money is fucking _nasty_. Humans were disgustang. People kept money in their underwear as like, a wallet? A daily thing? That’s just where they put it? Like Gross People? And most men don’t wash their hands after using the restroom. Which uh. Nasty. Gross. And - the internet told him this one - most dollar bills had trace amounts of cocaine on them! Plus, money never gets washed, despite the term _money laundering_ being a fucking thing. And that’s sick.

Not the good kind of sick.

They were still sitting pretty pretty, high on the hog, up in the rafters, floating through the clouds - though that might just be Benrey. He felt kinda floaty sometimes. It just took the occasional thought about Gordon to bring him back down. 

Sometimes thinking of Gordon made him happy, though. He didn’t shut up then. He’d ramble at Forzen about Gordon whenever he was happy, even if Forzen wasn’t happy about it. He’d read online that it was important to talk about people who were gone. The nice articles said that it helped people process their grief or whatever. Apparently, turning into a human skeleton and just… living wasn’t the healthy choice. It wasn’t like he’d made the decision consciously!

Speaking of Gordon, and money, and hotel/motel rooms…

“Remember after the second job? When Feetman made like, an angel outta money on the motel room floor?” Benrey chuckled. “Money angel.” Forzen grunted. Benrey remembered the night well. Money angel made him think of sitting up all night with Gordon like a coupla teenage girls at a sleepover, talking over the video game they were ignoring on the TV, throwing wads of cash at each other like heathens. Well, Gordon had called Benrey a heathen. He didn’t know how accurate that was. He didn’t know what a heathen was? Then Gordon made fun of Benrey’s attempt to make a money angel - because Benrey’d never made a snow angel before - and then he found out how hard it was to push money around on a carpet with arms and no hands. 

He tried not to annoy Forzen too much. He didn’t want to start an argument. It wasn’t like annoying Gordon, because Gordon got _funny_ when he was pissy. Well, he had. 

He tried taking a deep breath. It was something called _grounding_ , and he did it whenever his brain needed to focus on the world around him and not the past. He considered falling dramatically onto his face, but he didn’t want to break anything in his bags.

Sometimes, grounding himself could be literal. As a treat.

“Hey, remember when Gordon tried to pay me 10k to-”

“You should forget about him.” Forzen’s voice was low, dangerous, like a snake. Benrey didn’t frown, but he did look up, away from where he’d been carefully slotting his feet into the spots Forzen had stepped.

“Huh?”

“He’s just another human, he’d just-”

A whoop, a siren. Fuck. Cops.

 _Remember when Gordon showed us how to make fake IDs?_ He watched the cop car back up. Like, it had pulled a few yards down the road then backed up. Why? What the fuck was the point?

Benrey and Forzen stared at the cop car, lights still on, as it slid parallel to them on the edge of the road, gravel crunching and the tires running over those weird grooves that made noise.

“At least it shut up?” Benrey said, not realizing he’d reached Forzen. He looked down and took a step away. The cop car had made one weird whooping noise and then shut off. Probably just to get their attention. _Isn’t that what sirens are for anyway?_ The little mental Gordon that lived in Benrey’s head suggested unhelpfully.

Benrey adjusted his two duffle bags and waited for something to happen.

The car door opened. One foot hit the ground. Then a hand appeared, fingers gripping the door. Then the other foot. Binoculars came in handy. The car lifted a few inches when the man stood. The door swung the rest of the way open. 

He was probably as wide as he was tall. “Howdy, boys!” He shouted. “Got some reports of people walking out along here. It’s not safe. Come on, we’ll get you to the next exit.”

“Huh?” Benrey looked at Forzen. “Didn’t Gordon say that-”

“All cops are bastards. Yeah, keep - uh. Keep your guard up.”

“Cool.” Benrey led the way up the little hill to the cop car, climbing into the open door, muttering little “thank you, officers” and “hello there”s as he got in. He pulled his duffle bags over so Forzen could fit, then sat in silence.

The loud cop got back in the car and they were off. The rumble strips were weird. Car go brrr. Oh, he’d said that out loud? Embarrassing.

“You’re only embarrassing yourself.” Forzen grumbled. The cops had made him put on his seatbelt like a baby. 

“Shut up.”

“So why were you two walkin’ down the interstate?” The officer asked, half turning in his seat, once he was done spouting a stream of nonsense numbers into the radio. “It’s prohibited to walk along interstates. It’s not safe.” Gordon would have known what those numbers meant. He knew a lot about them for some reason.

So they couldn’t walk down interstates? What the fuck kind of rule was that? They’re roads. They’re meant to travelled. Stupid humans. “We, uh, got a ride from a dude called… Jeff… erem… and he uh, kicked us out a few miles ago.” Benrey mumbled. “He tried taking our shit but, uh, we didn’t let go.”

“What kind of car was he driving?” The driver spoke up for the first time. 

“White Ford Focus, probably around ten years old?” Benrey was talking out his ass. He was actually describing Gordon’s old car. ‘Old’ as in ‘destroyed’. He had no idea what a Ford Focus looked like beyond smoking wreckage.

“Hm. We’ll keep an eye out… You boys aren’t looking too bad, but we’ll get you to a rest stop and get some fluids in ya. It’s hot out here today.” It was always hot in the desert, what was he talking about? Though he guessed they’d moved a bit north of the actual desert. It was like… desert lite. Diet desert. Diet dessert. 

“Thanks.” Was what Benrey actually said. Forzen kept his eyes on the laptop in the front seat once he saw it, staring like a charmed cobra. It moved, he moved. That might have just been the car and the road, though.

They pulled up to the rest stop with half the fashion and all the terror of the bank robberies. Funny how a cop car was enough to make people panic. People never looked that panicked when he showed up in his security vest. They definitely looked that panicked when he showed up in the mask, though.

What had he done with that thing? Never mind, it didn’t matter. He was ready to get out of this pigpen and into the gas station. This was one of those 7-11’s. He’d never been in one of them.

“Uh?” But when he tried the handle, nothing happened. A click. Click-click-click. He needed out - out of this box - “Officer?”

“Just a moment.” The driver said, and the big guy got out of the passenger seat. “They only open from the outside.” Benrey and Forzen continued to pull on their handles, harder and harder. Benrey could see Forzen’s neck straining. He was barely keeping it together.

“I always forget that.” The big guy laughed. He didn’t know how close he came to death that day. As soon as Forzen’s door was open, he was out of the car, more like a rabbit in a cage than a snake anymore, his eyes wide, almost frenzied. Benrey made the briefest amount of eye contact with the cop before he nodded, just like Gordon did whenever he made eye contact with people when they were out and about. The cops eyes were brown, just like the shitty moustache he had.

Forzen pulled up some maps on his phone while they sat inside the gas station at a rickety table, under the air vents. Benrey thought about pulling out a jacket. He didn’t, but it was the thought that counted. Right?

“Fuckin’ stupid human rules.” Forzen muttered as he looked at the maps. “So we can’t walk down interstates. Fine. We’ll follow this highway… and this one…” He mapped out their path to the north, waiting for the right time to cross the mountain range to the west. They might hire a taxi for that part. Nothing was quite as boring or laborious as the idea of carrying two duffle bags across a mountain range. 

His mind bumped into the idea of cops again. They were a different kind of special car, so they occupied the same space in his mind as taxis, fire trucks, ambulances, talking robot cars... Gordon used to say All Cops Are Bastards. That one… well, he hadn’t seemed too bad. Gordon would probably sign something like, “No exceptions!” and make a face. Which was probably true, honestly. Just because a cop was nice once didn’t mean they wouldn’t fuck you over the next time they saw you.

Benrey accidentally kicked Gordon’s duffle bag, then mentally apologized. “Hey, remember that time we went to that mall?” He left out Gordon.

“Which one?”

“The one with the weird chairs.”

“... Yeah. Those things were so weird.”

“Yeah they were.” Benrey pulled out his own phone and fiddled with it. He pulled up the same three online newspapers (which was an oxymoron) and flicked through their obituaries. _“An obituary (obit for short) is a news article that reports the recent death of a person, typically along with an account of the person's life and information about the upcoming funeral. In large cities and larger newspapers, obituaries are written only for people considered significant.”_ Dr. Coomer’s voice rattled off in Benrey’s head. 

There was no way in hell that Gordon wasn’t an important person. Benrey was sure of it. Not just because it was Dr. Gordon Freeman. But because Gordon had been part of a trio of terror for the tristate area, plus Dallas, plus that one time in Alabama, and while Benrey hadn’t liked the humidity, he understood the appeal of crocodiles. Also, Gordon’s body would have been found dead in a bank, so…

Maybe they were doing that thing where they had to notify the family first? Which would suck. Gordon didn’t have much family left. He remembered Gordon mentioning them, once or twice. It was never good when they came up.

He flicked back to his other tabs. The ones with advice for dealing with the death of a loved one. Well, close coworkers counted, right? They were best bros. He believed the internet when it said stuff would get better. It just hadn’t yet, and that was okay. He had Forzen still, after all, even if he didn’t have anybody else.

“You there, dipshit?” Forzen asked, kicking him under the table.

“What?” Benrey put his phone down. It was a work in progress.

-

The next day passed without incident. Well… There were a few times Benrey said something to piss Forzen off. It wasn’t ever intentional. It just… happened. They were like… oil and water. Germ-X and papercuts. They didn’t mix, and they irritated each other, but only sometimes.

And Benrey, despite being annoying and owning that part of his personality like he owned a PS3, never _intentionally_ pissed Forzen off. It was different when Gordon had been here. They had each other to distract and annoy while Mr. Solo-Op, Big Shot Security Officer, Second-In-Command at Black Mesa Camera Central, plotted their course and got them jobs. It had been less like a lonely family cross-country hike and more like a road trip, minus the driving. Plus, like, annoying Gordon was funny. He’d get pissy and exaggerate and he sucked at arguing when he was mad, but that just made him funnier. Forzen just got _violent_.

The few times he and Forzen had fought - they were all Before, before the last heist and the death and the running and the payoff - but the few times he and Forzen had fought, Gordon avoided them. He didn’t deal with the stress well. He mentioned how much his parents fought and yeah, Benrey didn’t have parents but he assumed that the same lack of support and emotional control that he and Forzen had experienced ‘growing up’ would translate to shit emotional control and stress reactions in adulthood, same as Gordon. He wasn’t a shrink or anything, but he was reading more and more into stuff. Call him. Doctor. Doctor… Feelbad.

Anyway, he was actually thinking about Gordon’s death, in a way that didn’t make him incredibly sad. It was almost clinical. Dr. Benrey Feelbad, M.D., here to examine the - uh - post-mortem. He randomly remembered something Gordon had said after the second run, when they were getting things down and had less variables to keep track of because they’d done it once before. Something about stress sending a signal to his brain to shut down? It was something like that. Benrey remembered a few moments like that, a few that he’d been there for and a few that he’d only heard of. And then Benrey thought about the last heist, and how Gordon had probably shut down right before he died because he didn’t fight or flight, he _froze_ , and how much did that suck?

And because he thought it, it came out of his mouth without much more prompting. “It’s kinda funny that Freeman’s stress reaction is just, like. Shut down. That’s not fight or flight or anything, that’s not- that’s just Give In.” Benrey chuckled to himself. It was probably what had happened. Gordon had been messing with the panel or something when the guard got him. That would be the first shot, then the next two…

Wait, didn’t Forzen say there were three guards he’d killed?

Whatever. Maybe he got a two-fer. Benrey didn’t bother thinking about how bullets felt when they collided with his own skin. Humans were different, after all. Softer. Squishier. Easier to kill. Ask him how he knew!

“Will you shut the fuck up about Gordon?” Forzen snapped. He paused and looked up at Forzen, who was still stomping away down the highway.

“Wha? He was part of the team, man.” Benrey hustled to catch up, his bags hitting each other and clanking. He wasn’t sure what was really in Gordon’s. He didn’t look in it much. “Like, my best bro. My second best bro, after you, man.” Forzen stopped. Benrey stopped too. He never liked being too close to other people. Gordon was the only one who really touched Benrey at all. Haha. Gordon was touchy, and Benrey was touchy about touch.

“Well, he’s not fucking coming back, so you need to get over it.” Forzen said.

“Woo-oooh, mister fucken… solo op is being all single and lonely.” Benrey muttered. Okay, maybe he had instigated it a little bit. Sue him.

“Wooh, little gay boy being gay and lonely.” Forzen shot back. He turned around. Benrey was fussing with his duffle bags on the ground. Forzen’s fists clenched; Benrey knew he hated when he got distracted. He tried to focus. “Why are you still carrying his stuff around?”

“Uh? This is my shit, now.” Benrey had no-clipped into the other hotel room and nabbed everything of Gordon’s after the Dallas job. Part of it was so they wouldn’t be connected - part of it was, well. “Why, you mad? Because this, uh, was funny when I wore his clothes before.” And it had been! Gordon freaked out about his soft shirts getting stained. They were really soft. Softer than anything Benrey had worn before. Gordon got all mad and flustered, Forzen called Benrey gay, and between the two of them, Benrey had been soaking in all the attention.

Benrey’s hierarchy of needs: Soft shirts, attention, and more attention. He’d almost reached self-actualization that week.

Forzen kept glaring. Benrey grabbed his bags again and tried to cover up how much he had spaced. He tried to balance Gordon’s smaller, red duffle bag on top of his big black one. It wasn’t working. 

Benrey fiddled with the little not-a-buckle thing that made the straps longer or shorter and thought back to the last time he’d seen Gordon carry this bag. It was actually the last heist, he thought; Gordon had handed it off to Forzen before they left the van, and Benrey did the same with his. Gordon got a tiny bag because he was weak and human; didn’t have the core strength needed to carry one of the huge body-sized duffle bags. Not that they’d ever tried to fit a body in there; they knew murder was off the table. Gordon didn’t like it, and even Forzen had to admit that it would bring more cops out of the woodwork than they wanted to deal with.

Cops are just like termites, Benrey’s inner Gordon provided. They damage the structural integrity of society and lead to eventual collapse. Yeah, that sounded like him.

“... Huh?” Had Forzen been talking?

“Did you at least get rid of his cell phone?” Forzen sighed after a few seconds. “That’s how they’ll find us. They’ll triangulate it or trace it…”

“He had it on him, in uh, the bank. It’s already been found.” Benrey dropped the bags again and picked them up. Balancing. Just one big balancing act. He kept fiddling with them, wanting them to dangle safely. They were important. Carried a coupla lives in them.

“You should forget about him. He’s just another human. He would have died eventually, anyway.” Benrey didn’t know if Forzen’s tone was caring or not. He sounded bland, kind of emotionless, but that’s how he _always_ sounded.

“If I’d’ve been better he wouldn’t have.” Benrey said before he could stop himself. “I mean, uh…”

Forzen didn’t say anything for a long time. Benrey fiddled with the bags, and Forzen tried a different tactic. “At least get rid of his shit, man. You don’t need to carry all that stuff around with you.”

“Nah, man. This shit’s free.” This shit’s Freeman’s. “Can’t turn down free anything. You know. I’m like uh, a horker. Hoarder.”

“You need to grow up. We have money and plans. We’re better than free shit.” Forzen grumbled. “There’s no more weak link slowing us down. We’re out of danger. Black Mesa can’t get to us anymore.”

“Why are you acting like it’s a good thing Gordon’s gone?” Benrey snapped out of his bag-distraction for a second.

“Because it is, shit-for-brains. He was a fucking snitch. Just waiting for the call to turn us back in again.”

“What? No.” Gordon was a bro. Trustworthy.

“He was! He fucking worked for Black Mesa!”

“...” Benrey’s head felt like a PS3, frozen, blinking red light, no green. The hard drive was spinning but nothing was being read. “I… I fucking knew that, Forzen. We worked together. He was in - he was in sector C - we hung out, we were friends for like, three years-”

“You fucking knew and you didn’t tell me!” Forzen accused, his volume rising, along with his size. Oh. He get big.

“How the fuck do you think I found him?!” Benrey shouted back, but Forzen was suddenly in his face, growing, his hands grabbing at Benrey’s shirt and lifting him up. The shouting echoed in Benrey’s skull, clanging around the empty space.

“For all I knew, you could have posted online and got some random person off the street!” Forzen shouted. “You never told me shit!”

“We talked about Black Mesa in front of you!” Benrey paused. Had they? “Tommy, and Coomer, and Bubby, and the others -”

“Bullshit! You never said a damn thing! You were _both_ hiding it from me!”

“No man, he wasn’t!” 

“Tell me, then, why the fuck the scientist from the _alien rock_ lab would follow around two _aliens_ willingly?” Forzen hissed, spitting venom, his face close to Benrey’s. Benrey didn’t fight back. He probably deserved to get his ass kicked. Because…

“Because I fucking got him fired!” Benrey shouted back. “I fucked up his experiment and that’s what caused the meltdown and let us get the fuck out!”

“What the fuck?” Forzen asked. Benrey felt a sinking feeling in his stomach before his feet hit the ground. Benrey felt like he was carving his wounds open again. The void was right there, ready to sink into, but something else pulled at him. Anger. He grabbed it instead.

“I fucked up his experiment and got him fired! Me! I ruined his fucking life and now he’s _gone_ and I can’t make it up to him!” Forzen’s hands let go of his shirt and he took a step back. Forzen tried to reach out an awkward hand - like Gordon used to - but Benrey shrugged it off.

Forzen had the decency to look shocked, at least.

“Gordon didn’t like - like talking about Black Mesa either, man, but we did. We were bros. We were best friends, and now he’s dead.” Benrey thought he was gonna start crying. Jokes on him, though. His tear ducts don’t work. “He probably felt like a failure or somethin’, like… He was always such a perfectionist. 100% everything, first time. You know how hard it is to 100% Tree Tops on the first try? Worst fukken Spyro level but he did it. He fucking did it, man. Absolute legend. And I got him killed.”

Forzen was quiet. He took a step back, giving Benrey some room to breathe, he guessed. It didn’t matter. He’d pass out and come back quicker than he had any right to. 

“Gordon had to be working for them.” Forzen said after a few minutes. Benrey just shrugged. “No, man, like, he _had_ to be. We weren’t the only ones to escape. He had to be keeping an eye on us for them, so they could round them all up then come get us. Keep us out of trouble.”

“... He literally helped us rob like, banks and stuff, but keep, uh, keep believing that.” Benrey reached for his duffle bags. His and Gordon’s. 

… Wait.

They’d only had two bags in the bank. Forzen hadn’t even - he hadn’t even had his in the closet when they were getting ready. Why wouldn’t he have it? Why would he have Gordon’s and Benrey’s but not his?

Did he… did he know they’d only be able to carry two out of that bank?

“Was still working for them… Landed us right back there… Stuck in that fucking dungeon…” Forzen muttered to himself, because Benrey sure as hell wasn’t listening. What had he missed?

Three pops. Three shots from a gun.

_Gordon looks over his shoulder and down the hallway, glancing - counting. Listening to voices. The sign-language-earbud combo was a guaranteed win. Nobody believed he could hear when he had those off-brand wireless headphones in. Using that good ol’ social contract to his advantage. People always pity the disadvantaged. His hands flutter. Two guards. Three tellers. Two bankers in the back._

What had Forzen said?

_“There was another guard. Tripped the alarm. Got him, but not before he got G-man.”_

Gordon never miscounted.

No matter what they were doing - hell, they had had to run in the night, twice, and it was only Gordon’s insane knowledge of police scanner codes that got them the fuck out of there in time. Even if Gordon had been keeping an eye on them for Black Mesa - which Benrey could never believe, not with any part of him - but _even if_ … Why would he have gone through so much trouble to keep them _safe_?

His mind replayed the last heist - _one more god damn time_ \- and… You know what? He couldn’t remember Gordon mentioning a single fucking gun. Gordon would have mentioned a gun. Not just for himself - guns mean noise and noise means spectators and spectators means cops, and cops are, uh, _no good when you’re robbing a fucking bank_. Gordon hadn’t carried a gun in. The guards hadn’t had them. The only two people who had a gun were Benrey... 

And Forzen.

“... When did you find out Gordon worked at Black Mesa?” Benrey interrupted Forzen’s blue streak. He tried to be calm, conversational, even as his heart thudded in his chest, the _lub-lub-lub_ pushing boiling blood through his body. He was probably more human than he thought. His chest boiled, and his throat was filled with anger and screams just waiting to fall out of his mouth. Sweet Voice could kill. He’d never felt like trying it out before, though.

Not before now.

“... The Thousands told me. I said Gordon’s full name and they said he’d worked there. Sent me a picture of him in the HEV suit.”

Benrey nodded, taking in the information like it was the tutorial of a new video game, like he’d need it down the line. He probably would. He felt his chest creaking and cracking in his skin, his skeleton fighting to come out. _The Thousands_. A parasite. An almost-hivemind. They were like a fungus, growing and taking people over, using a psychic link to propagate and survive. They’d almost escaped Black Mesa once before, slowly moving their core of power out on the scientists who worked in the lower labs, but they’d been stopped.

By Benrey. He hoped there weren’t any hard feelings.

“I, uh, take it they’re, like, out here how?”

“Yeah. They’re up north.” Forzen fiddled with his little cap. His good-boy security cap. His fucking little good-at-his-job-so-he-got-promoted beret. Benrey wanted to set it on fire. “Kruhger got out, too. And about a dozen others.”

Of course they did. Benrey and Forzen fucking sucked as security officers. _They’d been the ones holding the damn doors open_ , Benrey snorted, then chuckled, then cackled. It wasn’t something he did often, even when Gordon was still around. Forzen stared at him, a small - Grin? Smirk? - growing on his face. Then he chuckled and clapped Benrey on the shoulder.

“Right? We’ve got friends out here. We’ve got - Got all sorts of things to do. And see. And uh, it’s like a brand new start? Right? Nobody from the past to keep us stuck.”

“Forzen.” Benrey pinned Forzen with a sick smile, twisted. It was triply shocking, coming from the man who never emoted. "You didn’t answer my, uh. My question. My in-query. My little quiz, uh, you know, before this.

“ _When_ did you find out Gordon worked at Black Mesa?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's taken me three chapters and over 8k words to get through what another writer could condense to less than... like, five pages. Sorry for how long this one is! I always appreciate constructive criticism and I love every comment! They inspire me and fuel my drive. 
> 
> And don't worry - we're getting to the good part. The part everybody's been waiting for. It's coming up. I promise. (I actually have no idea what anybody wants or expects from this. Least of all myself.)
> 
> EDITS: Made a break in the chapter to help denote flow of time better and changed a minor goof toward the end.


	4. Random Reality Shifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh, I need a break from these random reality shifts and mood swings..._

Gordon, to his credit, didn’t moan or groan or any of the other piddly bullshit people would probably normally do if they were suddenly forced back into life. He just kinda… inhaled. It was a long, shuddering inhale, but it inflated his lungs rather nicely. It was followed by an exhale, just as shaky, but just as silent.

“Dr. Freeman… Just the man I wanted to see.” G-Man’s voice floated over Gordon. Again, if he was remembering correctly. “How are you feeling?” The words? Caring. The tone? Curious. It was the vague curiosity of a disinterested father asking after their child’s hobbies at dinner. An obligatory question, not one that they were probably all too interested in hearing an answer for.

That’s okay. Gordon was probably hallucinating, anyway. Maybe this was the part where his brain decided to play his whole life before his eyes? He’d sat through it once before; honestly, he wasn’t impressed.

He thought death would be… Blacker. Nothingness. The end of a stream of consciousness. The black void of sleep. On the bad nights, when sleep didn’t come easy and he took cough syrup to quiet his mind, he’d wake up after what felt like a blink, his body rested but his mind still spinning because no time had passed. That’s what this felt like. 

He felt sluggishly not-good. A vague malaise covered him from head to toe. Then again, if he was dead, that made sense. He blinked his eyes again and continued to look at the ceiling. He wasn’t a medical doctor; he didn’t know what death did to a body in detail. Just that it wasn’t good.

“Dr. Freeman?”

Again? Why was his brain torturing him with hallucinations of Black Mesa’s creepy director? He’d rather re-watch his blunder years. High school, college, _anything_ was better than being reminded of The Incident.

Wait. He was breathing. Like, he was definitely breathing. That meant he was _probably_ alive. His hand flew to his forehead, feeling for where the instant of _pain_ had exploded, wondering morbidly how far into his skull his finger would go - which didn’t make any sense, he reminded himself; if he was dead, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. So when he poked himself in his forehead, his blunt fingernail scraping against his sweaty skin, he didn’t know what to do. _There was no hole_.

He choked on air, coughing in surprise, and something worked its way up and out of his throat - either panic or his tongue - one of the two. He coughed until his breathing evened out, until his throat hurt, until his eyes watered, and his arm fell back to his side, landing in something sticky, but he didn’t care. His unfocused eyes looked up at the lights. Was this what being born felt like?

“Dr. Freeman, I’m sure you know we are… Very busy people.”

Gordon looked around. Nobody was in the safe - oh, no, wait, there were two people - one was in the doorway, but he was _mostly_ in the safe. It counted. Oh, and they were both totally dead. He looked the other way and saw the hallucination, standing down the hall at the edge of his vision.

“Do you mind? Trying to die here.” Gordon’s hands explained for him.

“... Excuse me?”

“I was dead. Why did that change?” Gordon should probably sit up - it was so much easier to sign when he could use his full torso - but he didn’t want to. Sitting up felt too much like living.

“I… I’m afraid I don’t understand the… _sign language_ that you’re using.” Gordon squinted at the black lines that moved at the end of the hall. He raised one hand, his right one, with one finger extended.

“Very mature, Dr. Freeman.” G-Man’s voice was not amused. Funny! Neither was Gordon!

“Don’t need to be fucking mature. I’m dead.” Gordon rested his head on his hands, making a little cradle behind his head as he stared up and into the lights again, a lazy show of defiance. Everything seemed a little bit bluer than the last time he’d looked at this hallway - had it been minutes or hours? Eh. He could check his watch, but what did time matter when he was dead?

His eyes wandered to a strobe light above the security panel he’d ‘accidentally’ ripped open. It was caught halfway between on and off, though he didn’t know which direction it’d been heading in. That got his attention. He scrambled up - bracing himself against the wall, _man_ he was disoriented for some reason - and he stared, still a couple of feet below the light, but -

“What the hell is going on?”

“Dr. Freeman, the _hands_ \- I implore you, I cannot understand what is being said.” G-Man looked like he was taking a step towards Gordon.

Gordon hated his voice. It was one of those - it wasn’t _his_. He didn’t want it. He hated hearing it. It triggered all sorts of awful feelings in his brain and chest and you had _better_ believe it was only a combination of two _impossible_ things that made him resort to physically pushing air through his vocal chords. Gordon swallowed, wetting his throat.

“Time… is standing still.”

“Indeed, Dr. Freeman.” G-Man sounded smug. Probably because he thought he’d gotten his way.

“How the fuck is time standing still?”

“It’s not something most people are used to, hmm?” G-Man was wandering closer. Gordon watched him warily out of the corner of his eye. The last time somebody had gotten into his personal space, he’d, uh, _been fucking shot_ , so y’know. Personal bubble. “It’s… one of the many things I’ve learned from Black Mesa… and beyond.”

Gordon held back a scoff. _Sure, whatever, condescending prick_. Just talking to this guy reminded Gordon why he hated bureaucracy. “Why am I alive?” Talking was different than signing. Most people think it’s the same, a one-to-one translation of words to motions, but they’d be wrong. Sentence structure is different at a base level, and that can make it difficult to translate between the two, but simple ideas were easy enough to communicate. It meant Gordon had to reset his brain for speech instead of sign, but that wasn’t the real problem for him.

Despite his calm appearance - well, he had no idea what he looked like, honestly - but despite his attempts to _appear_ calm and collected, he could feel the anger building. He hated being the last person to know when something went down. He hated this whole situation. He hated being killed by people he was supposed to be able to trust and being left for dead by his last friend. He hated this smug bastard who had brought him back for apparently no reason, then made him _talk_.

“That is… another of the talents… We have developed.” Smugness radiated off of G-Man like the smuggest star in the galaxy. If he were a Yankee Candle, he’d be _Smug Mug_ , coffee and cream and _creep_ and as soon as that heavy, domed glass lid came off, Gordon would be able to _smell_ the smug from down the hall.

“No, idiot, I asked _why_ , not _how_.” Gordon snapped. His hand went back to the spot he’d been shot - did it feel like a scar? Had it been miraculously healed? 

“I was not expecting… such…” Fuck yes. If G-Man was speechless, he’d count that as the biggest win of the day. Not being dead notwithstanding. He turned back to G-Man, unable to see his expression, wishing desperately he had any idea where his glasses were so he could drink it in, but he had to settle for imagining it.

Heh. Guy looked pretty stupid.

“Anger? Hostility? Rage?” Gordon asked. His speech was coming more naturally with every word. If only his legs would work as well as his throatbox. He still needed the wall to keep him stable. Good wall. He patted it absently; might as well. It wasn’t like he was using his hands for anything, after all.

“... Er, precisely.” 

“Well, from your perspective, yeah, I should be thankful to be alive.” Gordon nodded nonchalantly, like he was discussing his hobbies with his own uninterested dad. “But from my perspective? Dude, it was _done_. I didn’t have anything else to do. I was done and ready to not fight anymore. No retirement, no money, no healthcare…” No more disappointing people, no more fighting with himself about right or wrong, no more living in fear that it would all come crashing down again…

No more trusting the wrong people.

Anger spiked again. Not anger at G-Man - he was a smug prick, sure - but he wasn’t as bad as Benrey and Forzen. He’d… He’d fucking trusted Benrey. He’d trusted him with everything. And he’d been betrayed. Not just betrayed - not just cut out of their payment, not just left behind to take the fall; he’d been fucking murdered in cold blood. Murdered and left behind, like… 

“That’s…” G-Man seemed to shift uncomfortably at his end of the hall. “Certainly an _interesting…_ perspective. Would you like to return to that state?”

“Fuck no. You brought me back to life, now you have to deal with me.”

“...” The silence stretched.

“I’m your problem now, G-Man.” Gordon smirked. He looked up and down the hallway - the bodies in the safe were just in his range of sight, but he ignored those. His new angle meant their... status was more visible. There was no reason to think they were important at all - they weren’t even trusted to have guns. “Wait. Why are you here in the first place?”

“It’s quite lucky that I found you here… wouldn’t you say? Somebody who can not only restore your life and heal your wounds, but also-” Gordon cut him off.

“I’m not asking you about that. _Why_ are you _here_?” Because Gordon had an idea, and if it was like any of his past ideas, it was correct, but in the worst possible way.

“... I had a… Security Deposit Box, Dr. Freeman. It was… Very important, and had many files… and personal documents… of great worth.”

“What was the - uh - what was the box number?” 

“I can’t see why it would be of any interest to you, Dr. Freeman.” 

Fuck.

“It was, uh, probably… Box 2978?” Gordon said. G-Man froze.

“How did you know that?”

“... That’s the one we were hired to steal.”

“... I’m very sorry. Excuse me for a moment.” G-Man flickered like a bad LCD monitor, then appeared an instant later, in the exact same spot. “Did you say you were _hired_ to steal this one? This particular box?”

“Yeah.” Gordon nodded. G-Man flickered again, then stepped closer to Gordon, pressing something into his hands. Oh, that’s where his glasses went! He slid them onto his face and blinked. “Did you, uh, not realize I was the one doing the robbing?”

“... No.” The word seemed to echo in the silence. 

“I mean - man, you can’t fire somebody with a niche degree like mine and expect them to have a job six months later! Not in this economy! Not even Aperture would touch me.”

This close, he was able to see G-Man’s stress. The normally unflappable three-piece-suit was definitely flapped. Gordon was almost sympathetic. If he hadn’t been the entire reason Gordon was robbing banks in the first place, he might have been.

“It’s fine. It’s whatever. It’s hunky-dory.” Gordon spoke to fill the silence, not sure what was going through G-Man’s head.

“This is the opposite of ‘hunky-dory’, Dr. Freeman. That box contained several… important files… that I must have returned.”

“If they were so important, why were they here? We’re in Dallas, dude. Black Mesa is like, eight hours away.”

“Not everything I do or hold dear pertains to Black Mesa, Dr. Freeman. You’d do well to remember that.” G-Man’s tone was almost as cutting as it had been on the day of The Incident. “There were… photographs of my… progeny… inside. I kept them here for safety’s sake.”

“That sounds like a ‘you’ - Wait. Progeny? You have a kid?”

“Not… in the traditional sense.” 

“You’re not telling me your name is… Doctor… what was it? Doctor Alan Connelly? Doctor Alvin Connelly? Is that like, your real name?”

“No. How do you know that name?”

“Whoever hired us told us. I was supposed to pretend to be his kid or something, Thomas? And get access to it. Of course, without an ID, they’d only let me in so far… That’s where the bank robbery cover-up came in.”

“I see. I suppose… dying was not part of it?”

“No. Fucking asshole ex-teammate got me by surprise.”

“Are you certain it was not one of the guards?” G-Man gestured at the two very dead men in the vault door. Gordon resolutely did not follow the gesture. He didn’t need to look at them now that he had his glasses on, that was for damn sure.

“Abso-fucking-lutely. They don’t have any guns.”

“How are you so sure? You aren’t looking at them.”

“I -” Gordon paused. Further self-incrimination? You know what - in for a penny, in for a pound. “I was the one who scoped the place out, not just today, but over the past few days. I. Uh. I know what the guards have on them. And I know that whatever was used to ki- Uh. Kill me. Was a larger round, not something that… uh. They would have.”

“Do you know what being shot feels like through… experience?”

“Maybe once or twice.” Gordon paused. Did that sound cool? Was he _trying_ to sound cool right now? No. He wasn’t trying to impress G-Man. The time for that was long, long past. “I’ve, uh, been doing this for like six months now.” Gordon’s hand hovered near his side, where he had been hit once after the third run. It wasn’t a pleasant memory, but it was also the learning experience he’d needed to start taking every possibility into account. Benrey had pulled out the bullet and used his Healing Beam to take care of the wound, and Gordon had done his best not to be a baby about it.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, uh, yeah. It was probably the smaller semi-automatic that For- I mean, the asshole was carrying.”

“A logical deducement, then.”

“Yeah, logical, whatever. So your box isn’t here anymore. It’s as gone as my bank-robbing partners. I guess we’re both screwed, huh?”

“Oh, no, Dr. Freeman. I’m not screwed at all. See, I have a source of information now. I have you.”

Oh, that didn’t sound good. That didn’t sound good at all. “I don’t know _who_ hired us, man! I just know that I was hired to get this box and that they were going to pay us enough to leave the country for a really long time. I could have gotten a new identity and fucked off.”

“But you do know who your team members were, correct?”

“Yeah, but I don’t see how that’s -” Wait.

Was Gordon trying to protect Benrey?

Benrey, who left him dead in a bank? Benrey, who always listened to Forzen? Benrey, who had brought him on to this dangerous bullshit in the first place? Why the fuck would he stick his neck out for Benrey? 

“Actually, yeah. I do remember the fuckers who I was working with. Benrey and Forzen Stong.”

This close to G-Man, Gordon was able to see the nearly imperceptible widening of his eyes. “Benrey and Forzen Stong? From Black Mesa?” 

“Yeah, those are - those are them.” Gordon nodded. Again, nonchalant, like a cool kid, somebody who got shot and shrugged it off and walked away from explosions like they were nothing.

Aw, who was he kidding? He wasn’t cool. Not that kind of cool, anyway. He wasn’t even cool and collected. Definitely the opposite of a cool cucumber. He was a… hot pickle? No, that didn’t make any sense.

“... Dr. Freeman?”

“Huh? Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”

“Dr. Freeman… I suggest that we work together in this… trying time. You have the information I need and I… I have the means to pay you for… that information.”

“Oh, I don’t like the sound of that.” Gordon muttered to himself. “What do you mean? You want to pay me to - to tell you about Benrey and Forzen?”

“Not exactly, Dr. Freeman. I believe… you’d be better suited to the field, ah, _research_ , in this case. You… you traveled with them for the past six months, did you not?”

“Something like.” Fuck. Why hadn’t he lied about it being Benrey and Forzen? If he had lied and said it was the one job, he wouldn’t be in this mess. Well… this particular version of this mess. “We did a few jobs here and there.”

“Oh, no need to be modest, Dr. Freeman. Your quick mind and… unconventional problem solving measures are legend, in and outside of Black Mesa. I would guess you and your… ‘asshole ex-teammates’ are responsible almost entirely for the string of robberies here in the southern United States.” G-Man didn’t have to pause for breath, so he was probably pausing for effect. “If you do this for me… I’m sure I can take care of any… unwanted warrants, hmm?”

“No. I’d - I think I’d rather just die again than, uh, be in your debt.” Gordon said.

“Now, now, we both know you are happy to be living again. A chance to fix your past mistakes, is it not?” G-Man looked around again. “I will say, the items in that box are quite… valuable to me. I can make it more than worth your while to… track them down.”

“... What kind of payday are we talking about?”

“What exactly would it take to entice you to work for me? A willing worker… who is well compensated… is much more valuable than a worker who is reluctantly doing a job.” Ah, bureaucracy! Gordon hated it so much. He hated it almost as much as he hated cops and the military. 

“First, I want them brought back to life. It was always in-and-out, no deaths, before. I didn’t sign up for… that.” Gordon gestured at the safe and took a second to think. What was worth it? Other than a couple of lives of nameless background guards in a downtown bank? What could he bargain for?

Well. There was one thing he wanted more than anything else. (Other than a shot at Benrey, but ironically enough, that was _also_ what G-Man was offering him, so he couldn’t really complain.) 

“Dr. Freeman? When you said ‘First’, I assumed there would be a… follow-up statement.” G-Man said from where he had wandered over to the bodies to get a closer look - he had a stronger stomach than Gordon, that’s for sure.

“Uh, yeah. Second, I want - I want a new body. I want surgery - I mean, I -” This was awkward. G-Man had caught him off guard and now he was stuttering like a new intern again. He took a deep breath. “I want gender reassignment surgery - it’s what I was saving up for, before all… this.” He finished lamely. “Also, I want healthcare until I get that box back for you, and I want to be paid.”

“Obviously, Dr. Freeman.” G-Man probably rolled his eyes or something, but Gordon couldn’t see it from where he was standing. “Your employment with Black Mesa will be… re-established, of course.”

“What?” Gordon’s chest clenched. “No!”

“... What do you mean, No?”

“I mean no!” Gordon panicked. “I can’t go back there!”

“Dr. Freeman, I thought it was obvious that… I would be taking you back, even before our most recent… revelation?” G-Man turned around and quirked an eyebrow at Gordon. “You have many… friends there, who worry after you.”

“I don’t - that’s not the point! I can’t show my face there after what happened!” G-man turned to face him fully. “People - people fucking died because of me, man! I can’t go back to Black Mesa!” He couldn’t look Dr. Coomer in the eye after that day. He could barely live with _himself_.

He had thought it was poetic justice. Dying in a bank robbery that he’d helped to orchestrate - it almost made up for all the other dumb shit he’d done. The people he’d killed, however inadvertently, in the Black Mesa Incident back in March. The panic attacks he’d given people in the robberies. The mental anguish he’d inflicted on masses of people with his grandiose bullshit in the past six months. Robbing that charity auction - that was one he’d probably regret for a while. Cutting his family off without a backwards glance, changing his name without telling anybody… Without giving them a chance to understand. Dying couldn’t make up for everything, but it could make up for a bit. It was what he deserved, probably. 

_Of course this is how it ends,_ he’d thought, feeling Forzen’s hand grab his shoulder and pull, throwing him against the wall. The two guards had probably come out of the back office after the first shot, ending up dead in the safe instead of ignored. Misplaced heroism. _Of course this is how I die._

“Oh! I meant to… thank you.” G-Man put his hand out, and Gordon’s brain bluescreened.

“What?” Gordon stared at G-Man’s hand, his own hands twitching. He caught himself signing “W-T-F” with his hand and he stilled it; subconscious bullshit again. “Why the hell are you _thanking_ me?”

G-Man stared at Gordon for a moment, his hand still in the air between them; Gordon almost reached out to shake it. He waited, though, letting the silence fill the air. It was something he’d learned from Benrey. Use their own ideas of social norms against them, make them talk to you.

“Your experiment, and it’s… _consequences_ , brought the existence of my progeny to light. It is only fitting that I thank you for your work and… reward you, is it not?”

“... How in the world does me fucking up a wormhole experiment expose your illegitimate child?”

“It’s a rather convoluted tale, Dr. Freeman. One I’m sure you’d… probably like to hear in a more, _comfortable_ location?”

Gordon resolutely did _not_ look down. But, he did reach out and slide his hand into G-Man’s, ready to do the one-pump, up-down handshake Coomer had taught him in college.

“Fine. As long as it’s not -”

-

Normally, Dad didn’t take this long.

Well, long was a… weird way of putting it. It was like… a loop in a string. If time is a string, then the string goes from point A to point B, or it would, normally. But when he or his Dad mess with time, there’s a point where the string loops over itself and causes a break, making the loop-de-loop outside of the normal timeline. That little loop gets bigger and bigger the longer he or Dad stay in it - and, this loop is getting pretty… big.

Like, fifteen minutes or so big. 

Tommy decides to stop standing still exactly where he was and finishes taping the balloon to the wall. It was Dr. Coomer’s birthday, after all, and the decorations weren’t going to put themselves up! It might seem like they did, but it would really be Tommy. After all, he’s the only one who can really… copy his Dad, with their weird alien powers and all. And why not take advantage of the extra time he’s getting?

He finishes the balloons and streamers by the time time resumes. The world turns back to the normal yellow hue under the Black Mesa Budget Buster Bulbs, produced here in Black Mesa to be as absolutely affordable and environmentally conscious as possible. Bubby made a startled noise from the other side of the room after a second.

“Sorry, time moved faster…” Tommy looked over his shoulder, then did a double-take.

“Black - hurp!” Gordon Freeman clung to the tall cylindrical trash can near the door, holding onto it as he… emptied his stomach. Anything Tommy had thought about saying was wiped from his mind like… like a thin layer of snow being wiped away by brand-new wiper blades. 

He blinked.

His Dad reappeared a second later, but he doubted Bubby noticed. Bubby was too busy staring at Gordon, who was patting the side of the trash can like it was the one getting sick, not him.

“Why did you have me working on wormholes if you had the ability to teleport, man…?” Gordon asked, finally looking up from the trash can. 

Tommy blinked. Bubby said something very angry under his breath. Dad smiled at Tommy.

“Mister - Mr. Freeman?” Tommy wanted to take a step closer, but… Mr. Freeman looked _awful_. His face was covered in blood, and he was paler than the moon on a misty spring morning. Mr. Freeman just stared, his eyes flickering between Tommy and Bubby as they stood in two opposite corners of the room, stuck to the ground.

“Yes, I found Dr. Freeman while I was out procuring some… goods for the party.” Dad flickered again and suddenly the tables were full of snacks and drinks, somehow all Tommy’s favorite brands. Tommy didn’t look away from Mr. Freeman.

“Why the hell are you talking?” Bubby finally said, marching across the room. Once Bubby started moving, Tommy felt like he could move again; he rushed towards Mr. Freeman too, dropping whatever he was holding. Whatever hit the floor was covered up by Mr. Freeman’s voice, the same one he remembered from Black Mesa what felt like forever ago, probably made even longer by his own weird time powers. 

“I - uh - Bubby! And Tommy! I’m - uh -” Mr. Freeman’s stutters were accompanied by stuttering hands, a silent partner to his cacophony voice. “G-G-Man doesn’t - uh, actually, I don’t know your name?” Gordon looked at Dad with a weird face, before turning back to Bubby, who was already halfway across the room. “G-Man doesn’t understand sign language so I - uh - had to help him understand. So I guess that’s why I’m talking?”

“Why are you covered in blood, Mr. Freeman?” Tommy grabbed some orange napkins off the table. Mr. Freeman froze, his hand flying to his forehead, smearing the red awfulness all over.

“I - uh -”

“Stop talking, you imbecile! And you!” Bubby marched straight past Mr. Freeman and stuck his finger in Dad’s face, making Dad jump a little bit. “Gordon doesn’t talk! He uses sign language! Respect his needs!”

“Ye-yeah, Dad, Mr. Freeman - uh -” Tommy didn’t know how much Mr. Freeman was comfortable with saying, so he decided to be vague. “Mr. Freeman’s voice is really - really messed up, and it’s kinda my fault, so we all learned sign language to help him out!” Tommy pressed the orange napkins against Mr. Freeman’s face and did his best not to freak out himself.

There was a _lot_ of blood.

“What do you mean, Tommy?” Dad asked, looking around Bubby’s pissed off hand.

“Don’t you dare ignore me, you shark! You don’t get to disrespect somebody the way you have without apologizing!” Bubby shook his finger, little flicks of flame lighting up and down. “And you - can’t you read minds anyway? What would you need him to speak out loud for, anyway?”

“Holy shit.” Mr. Freeman looked between Tommy and his Dad with wide eyes. “You’re _Thomas_?!” 

“Uh. Yeah, Mr. Freeman, we’ve known each other for years…?” Tommy kept rubbing blood off, but the source wasn’t clear. He grabbed more napkins and kept going. “Tommy is short for Thomas.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” And then Gordon Freeman fainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if any typos got away from me! 
> 
> I appreciate each and every comment I get! I love knowing what worked for people and what didn't. I crave information.


	5. Number City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Attention we have got a medical emergency; The patient's condition is critical and fading..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tone shift! For those who listen to Coheed and Cambria, you might already know this, but the song Number City has a very different... _feel_ than the rest of their music. We'll be back to our regularly scheduled protagonists soon!

The damn mailman kept coming later and later. Bubby and Harold had already been home for more than half an hour - and more importantly, Harold was already comfortable on the couch - when the mail slot jiggled and papery nonsense fluttered to the floor.

“I’ll get it.” Bubby said, standing up. He pecked Harold on the forehead as he passed. “You stay there. You had a long day.”

“No longer than yours, Bubby.” Harold said with a grin, but he didn’t get up. Good.

Internet bill, electric bill, ads… Bubby flicked through the mail in the hallway with half an interested eye. Everything was on autopay. These companies were just wasting money and resources to send them paper bills every month. He was honestly considering tossing everything into the burn box when he saw the dull green envelope at the bottom of the pile. 

He pulled it out, flipping it back and forth. It looked innocuous enough. Just a little card-sized envelope with “Dr. Harold Coomer” written on the front, above their address.

Oh. Wait. This had to be from Gordon.

There was no other reason for the return address to be the coffee shop Harold went to every Thursday - payday, baby. Harold’s birthday was on a Thursday this year. Gordon must have planned ahead.

Well, at least he’d planned for _something_. Little chicken-hat couldn't be there on the actual _birthday_. He supposed it was the thought that counted.

Actually, no. Fuck that. Bubby reconsidered throwing it in the burn pile. If he tucked it towards the bottom, Harold would never notice it. Burning things was Bubby’s job, obviously.

But… The Card…

Bubby turned it in his hands again. He rubbed the front, then the back, feeling the little bumps and ridges on the inside - little glitter patterns, probably one of those cartoony cards he liked. The Hallmark logo stared at Bubby, mocking him.

Six months of silence. Nothing. Nobody - not even Mr. Coolatta - had been able to find him. Not that Bubby had asked him to look. Tommy had asked. But there was no trace of Dr. Gordon Freeman anymore. It was like he’d been swallowed by the earth.

Or burnt to a crisp. Bubby pressed his thumb over the Hallmark logo, fidgeting. Weighing his options.

He finally tucked the letter into a desk drawer in his office, then went back to the living room. He’d… He’d wait and give it to Harold tomorrow, depending on how the party went.

-

Bubby was distracted. That wasn’t anything new, honestly, but the _level_ to which he was distracted was something to marvel at.

Harold watched Bubby put his pants on backwards, fall down the stairs, add salt to his coffee instead of sugar, eat a coaster instead of his normal granola bar for breakfast, and just a moment ago, he’d tried to sit down on thin air. He fell on his bum and then complained that the chair he’d been aiming for moved… Then he ran to the restroom.

Harold smiled and took another step forward in line. According to his documentation, the next spike in activity should be happening soon… It would be a great birthday gift, though he didn’t have any reason to believe that would play any part in the decision making process. 

He pulled out his phone to check anyway. Figures and numbers and stats filled the spreadsheet, dating back almost five months. He checked the locations - excepting a streak in Houston three months ago, there hadn’t been any repeat performances, so he doubted it would be in a familiar location. That just meant he had to cast his net wider. It was like baseball. The statistics and averages could help him make predictions, but nothing was guaranteed.

“Oh, looking at your bank robberies again?” Bubby asked. Harold looked up from his phone. 

“Ah! Hello, Bubby! Yes! I’m just… checking up on them.”

“I wonder how they’re doing, out there on the run.” Bubby said. “More power to them. Fighting the establishment, one shitty bank at a time.”

“I’m sure they’d love to know that you support them!” Harold said, doing his absolute hardest to keep the grin on his face from sliding into _smug_ or _sly_ territory. Truly, he’d been teasing Bubby about this for months, but Bubby never picked up on it. He hoped Bubby would figure it out, but no matter how many hints he dangled, Bubby never managed to sink his claws into one.

_“Harold, why are you watching that robbery video again?” “They were quite sloppy! I’m thinking of ways they can improve on their technique.” “Hm… You’re right. They’re not going to get a perfect run like that, that’s for sure.” “Yes, they’re very new at it. I believe they only started in the past few months or so!”_

_“Bubby, look! I do believe that constitutes a new High Score!” “... Wait, they stole the police van? You’re telling me that the cops drove up in a van and left the entire thing unattended while they went into the bank?” “It appears so, Bubby!” “Those cops are fucking idiots.” “Maybe the bank robbers are simply very smart!” “That’s what I should do with my degrees. Get into bank robbing…” “I’m sure we know somebody who could give you some starting tips!” “What the hell does that mean?”_

_“That’s an excellent use of physics!” “What happened?” “The robbers-” “Oh, it’s your bank robbers again. What are you, an anti-sheriff?” “Dear Bubby, I hold no ill will towards Wild West Lawmakers! Modern law enforcers, however, earn my ire.” “Understandable. What did they do?” “This one set up a Physics trap!” “... Huh, that’s actually pretty - Wait, holy shit, that was awesome!” “They certainly have a great potential for science!”_

_“That’s not even a bank robbery! They just stole from a charity auction!” “Yes, but they revealed that the non-profit benefiting from the auction was fraudulent. That’s certainly something!” “Really? How did they do that?” “Apparently, one of them crawled through the vents to get into their office and steal several important servers!” “They crawled through the vents?” “Yes! They must have a lot of experience with it, to do it so quickly and without being caught.”_

_“Somebody burnt down a police station? Do you think it’s your favorite bank robbers?” “Oh, undoubtedly!” “What makes you so sure?” “Their handwriting!” “... How do you know what their handwriting looks like?”_

_“Why do you think there’s been so many bank robberies recently?” “Oh, you mean for the past five months?” “Yeah.” “Well, I’d imagine that they have a lot more free time!” “What does that mean?” “... It’s easier to make plans with friends when you don’t have to worry about working!” “Whatever you say, Harold.”_

Bubby was incredibly smart, but sometimes, he was also incredibly obtuse.

Thursdays were the only day of the week they drove into work together, Harold enjoying his random expensive coffee and sweet treat while Bubby drove them in. He thought about what would be waiting for him once he got home - he knew all about the birthday party; he was more concerned with the post.

-

When Gordon faints, Bubby is still too shocked to move. Thankfully Tommy is standing right there to catch him, instincts and safety training winning out against gravity. _Suck it, gravity_ , Bubby thinks, then grimaces. Tommy’s gonna have to get a new coat. That one is all… Bloody.

“Tommy, I’m gonna call the hospital.”

“That… should not be necessary. He should wake up… soon.”

“What the hell do you mean, it shouldn’t be necessary? The man just fainted! After appearing out of thin air, covered in blood!” Bubby could feel fire at his fingertips. He’d set this man on fire.

“He’s certainly had an… interesting day, but I assure you, there’s nothing wrong with him. After I… restored, his life, he’s as good as new.” G-Man did look a little concerned, though. As concerned as he could look.

“He… was dead?” Tommy’s voice was thin and thready. Bubby looked over, and good, Tommy had laid Gordon on the ground. “How - how - how did he die?”

Now, Bubby didn’t have kids of his own - and no, Gordon didn’t count. Not really. But even without any experience having kids, or raising kids, or dealing with kids _ever_ , he was surprised when Mr. Coolatta opened his shitty mouth to answer a question that was obviously not asked out of any sense of sane, logical, or remotely healthy curiosity. He stood, practically frozen, as Mr. Coolatta answered the question.

“He was shot in the head at… _very_ close range, if not point-blank.” Mr. Coolatta gestured to the blood. The blood that was everywhere. He didn’t seem to notice Tommy’s breathing getting more and more shallow, more rapid. “It was a direct shot, entering-”

“Shut the fuck!” Bubby _finally_ shouted, cutting Mr. Coolatta off. “Shut the _fuck_ up. We don’t need to hear how our very good friend _died_ , thank you.” Bubby paused for a second, then he set Mr. Coolatta on fire. He deserved it. “I’m going to call the hospital. You… Tommy, keep your dad from talking.”

It was true that there were no medical doctors in Black Mesa, unless you count some of the nerds who have dual doctorates or something stupid. Of course, none of them were here right now, except for Tommy, and he doubted Tommy wanted to do the doctoring for Gordon. He pulled out his cell phone, fingers brushing the letter. The letter from Gordon. The letter from the stupid little -

Thankfully, the hospital wasn’t that far away. He’d get a quick response. He looked out the window, ignoring the smell of burning wool and the sight of red everywhere.

His thumb hovered over Harold’s name before he clicked _Hospital - Black Mesa_ and let it ring.

“Yeah, we have a recently-dead person here who needs medical attention… No, they’re not a zombie! Yes, I know what a zombie looks like! I know… No, shut up. Get me somebody else. Okay, then do your job, and send somebody to the meeting room complex! Yes, I’m sure!" Bubby resisted the urge to set something else on fire. “Room 867, yes. Thank you, yes. I’m sure. Positive.”

As soon as he hung up, he sighed a deep, heaving sigh. The fire that had been growing on Mr. Coolatta’s suit was gone when he turned around. No smoke, no burns. Of course. Mr. Coolatta had kept his mouth shut, at least. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if he’d said another stupid word. His fingers brushed the envelope again as he slid his phone back into his breast pocket. 

How the fuck was he going to tell Harold about _this?_

-

Oh! Something was happening in Dallas! A bank robbery downtown, but… only two masked individuals. What was even odder was that police were already en-route. The robberies were normally completed - over and done - by the time the police were contacted and the news crews were on the scene. It… it worried Harold.

Still, it wasn’t the first time they’d had to contend with cops. Harold watched the fuzzy video on his phone, streamed live from the scene of the crime, and wondered which one Gordon was. It was too distant to tell..

Oh, he had work to be doing. As much as he wanted to continue watching, he was the only one in the facility properly trained to handle some of the waste produced. He couldn’t go disappointing Tommy. 

They’d made it out of tighter situations before. He had faith. He believed in Gordon Freeman, wherever he was, and he knew he’d make it out of that bank alive and well.

-

Bubby took the cowards way out. He couldn’t - he _won’t_ \- betray Gordon’s trust. But... being loyal to Gordon means potentially hurting Harold. He’s not sure he could do that, either.

He was tucked in the corner, watching interns and scientists file in and out, trying very hard not to think of the young man in the hospital. The one who’d died. The one who came back to life. 

He’d given Mr. Coolatta a fifteen minute lecture on manners outside of the hospital room, but he wasn’t sure how much had stuck. Tommy had said some things, too, but he hadn’t been paying attention to those. He’d made sure the nurses knew about the possibility of a gunshot wound as well as the possibility of shrapnel - he didn’t want them putting Gordon in an MRI and doing more damage. They assured him it would be fine, and he had to leave, content with that.

Well. He would have left if Gordon hadn’t woken up, had a panic attack, and been sedated. He left after that. He didn’t like thinking about it. He’d done his best, but… he couldn’t fix everything.

 _That kid will be the death of me_ … Bubby’s leg jittered with a mix of _nervous anxiety_ and _I’ve already had fifteen sodas_ , trying not to bolt for the door every time another white-haired scientist came in. Maybe if he ate some potato chips, he wouldn’t have to worry about his liquid intake? Salt to retain the water?

“I - I don’t think it works like that, Bubby.” Tommy said. He sounded almost as exhausted as Bubby felt. Hell, he _looked_ as exhausted as Bubby felt. “It’s been a really… long… day.”

“Can’t we just… call the party off?” Bubby grumbled. 

He didn’t want to hurt Harold, but he couldn’t imagine this ending well. For all he knew, Gordon had already run away from the hospital. It wasn’t like his ties to the Science Team had stopped him before. The longer they waited to tell Harold, the less likely Gordon was to still be there.

The birthday card sat in his pocket, weighing him down, like it was made out of lead instead of paper. He owed Harold so much. He’d never been happier. He didn’t want to hurt Harold, but… it meant hurting Gordon instead.

 _“Please… Don’t tell Dr. Coomer I’m here!”_ Gordon begged. Tommy promised. Bubby stood by the door, silently watching while the nurses held Gordon down. 

“I - I don’t think…” Tommy muttered something. Bubby shook his head. “Dr. Coomer would feel like we wasted - wasted everybody’s time if we did.” Tommy crushed his can of soda against his head; Bubby grimaced. That _never_ looked comfortable, no matter how many times Tommy said it was fun. “I think it would be better if we acted like… like nothing was weird.”

Ha! “We work at Black Mesa. Everything is weird, all the time.” Bubby took another sip of his soda. Coola-Cola. Where in the world did Tommy and his dad find these things? It was growing on him, though he wouldn’t admit it. (Anything to keep up the distractions.) Wait - was that Harold? He almost stood up, but Dr. Kleiner and Mr. Coolatta came around the corner. Ugh. Now Harold would never get free. Freedom no longer in his grasp, he turned back to Tommy. “Speaking of weird shit, how did you teleport earlier? Another ability you inherited from dear-old-dad?”

“I - I - I don’t know what you’re, uh, what you mean, Bubby!” Tommy stood up and fidgeted. “I”m gonna get - another - another soda, do you want one?” Oh. Bubby had struck a nerve. Shit.

He could apologize, but there were too many people around. He didn’t want _them_ to hear. But… his friendship with Tommy was more important. He guessed. “Grab me another one of these blue ones. They’re actually okay.”

Tommy smiled and nodded as he walked away, but Bubby could tell he was still nervous. Fuck. He was fucking this all up. He drained the rest of his _sixteenth_ soda as he waited for Tommy to get back - Tommy got a clap on the shoulder when he passed Harold, which made Bubby think of how Gordon had panicked when his shoulder was grabbed by the nurses, and _wow_ , that’s not what he wanted to think about! What the fuck!

He forced himself to think of other things. His marriage to Dr. Coomer. He thought about the past few years they’d spent together, wreaking havoc on Black Mesa behind the scenes. It was only after they’d gotten married that he’d finally been recognized and treated as a person here - the team of handlers he had had all been moved to Sector E, working with some of the more… dangerous specimens. He hadn’t mourned the ones who died back in March. He hated them.

This… _also_ wasn’t what he wanted to think about. Hm. 

Tommy handed him another soda. “I’m… I’m sorry for bringing it up. I can’t blame you for wanting to keep something like that secret.” He grumbled. He was doing that a lot today.

“Are… Are you sure?” Tommy asked quietly. Bubby sighed. What was his life anymore? Helping people with their issues was one thing; knowingly bringing more emotional bullshit into his life was another. He can’t believe he’s done this.

“I’m sure as hell, Tommy. Dr. Coomer and I had the choice to get these abilities and the choice to tell people about them. You have the same rights to tell people about what you can and can’t do.” Gah, _Friends_. It was like he _liked_ Tommy and enjoyed his company and wanted him to be happy, or something. He looked away from Tommy and Harold and stared out the window. Every time he lifted his arm to take a drink of his new soda, he felt the card poke him in the chest.

“That’s… Thanks, Bubby.”

“Don’t mention it.” Tommy smirked into his soda can. “I’m serious, don’t mention it. I have a reputation to maintain.” Tommy laughed openly. Little shit. Bubby sighed.

He knew he was acting all nervous and shitty and he _knew_ it was wrong to take it out on Tommy. If Gordon were here, he’d take it out on him, but he wasn’t, so he had to bottle it up. It wasn’t like he could take it out on Mr. Coolatta without being fired, and there was no way in hell he was talking this out with Harold. He just - 

He was _worried_ about Gordon.

There, he said it. Are you happy? Because he sure as hell isn’t. Gordon… Dead and back again, all before lunch. Kid led a pretty busy life, even after he got out of Black Mesa. He still had no idea how he _died_ , though. What was he doing that could have possible put him in the sights of a gu-

Tommy grabbed his shoulder and shook his head.

Oh, yeah. The mind reading thing. That was the _first_ thing they knew Tommy got from his dad. Apparently, he also got teleportation and… insane caffeine tolerance.

“It’s… more like… Time… manipulation… than teleporting.”

“Great! Just great.” Bubby took another sip of soda. “What the _fuck_ , Tommy?”

“It’s… I dunno.” Tommy shrugged. “I don’t know how to do it on command yet. I just… don’t get affected when my dad does it.”

“That’s even worse.”

“I know.”

“Wait, I don’t mean that. It’s not worse and it’s not bad. It’s just new.” Bubby took a breath. “You shouldn’t apologize or feel bad.”

“Your, uh, reputation is gonna get damaged if you keep talking like that.” Tommy said with a smirk. 

“Eh, fuck it. I don’t like anybody here anyway.” 

“That’s not nice!” Tommy laughed. Bubby took a self-satisfied sip of his soda. Tommy could use more smiles… So could Harold.

-

God. Gordon had a headache.

That was probably understandable.

God, he was _pissed_.

That was probably understandable, too. 

He’d think about how he’d get his revenge later. Right now, he just needed to rest.

-

It’s a good thing birthday parties were so distracting. Harold pulled out his phone and showed the stats to Mr. Coolatta and Dr. Kleiner, rambling about his predictions and how accurate they’d been. He didn’t mention Dallas. 

Mr. Coolatta’s eyes suddenly widened, and he looked over his shoulder - at Tommy and Bubby, sequestered in the corner. Bubby got up and ran out of the room. 

That was weird. But then Dr. Kleiner asked another question about the bank robbers, and Harold couldn’t pass up another chance to brag about Gordon, especially to another Gordon fan. Even if Dr. Kleiner didn’t realize it was Gordon.

“Yes! Nobody knows what happened to the things taken from the charity auction. There are rumors, however…”

-

“Bubby!” Bubby jumped. He’d been in the hallway after running to the restroom - seventeen cans of soda was apparently his limit. “Professor Bubby, we’re getting ready to cut the cake!”

Harold was being a little shit. He knew Bubby hated being called Professor. Hmph. Still, there was no way he’d make Harold serve cake on his birthday... And there was no way he’d miss out on a corner piece.

“Doctor.” Bubby grumbled as he followed Harold back into the meeting room.

“Yes, Professor?”

“Is that how it’s gonna be?” He said, poking Harold in the side. Harold giggled and ducked away, walking behind the table. Oh, he wasn’t getting away that easily. Several of the interns who had been rounded up giggled as he climbed over the table, knocking napkins and plates to the floor, and he landed on Harold, pulling them both to the floor. 

More surreptitious laughter followed them as they fell, but Bubby didn’t care. He played it off as an accident but snuck a peck onto Harold’s cheek before he backed up. “It’s _doctor_.” He muttered under his breath.

The table kept them hidden from most prying eyes. Not that anybody here would believe that they were together. Harold and Bubby’s… _relationship status_ had been one of the great mysteries at Black Mesa for the past fifteen years. Until Tommy became their friend, nobody knew they were partners; until Benrey and Darnold joined the group, nobody knew they were married. Then Gordon came along.

Back before they were married-married and had just been “living in sin,” as Harold said proudly every time he talked about it, they’d made the decision to not… advertise their relationship. Thankfully, times had changed a lot, and were continuing to change. The more Old White Men that left Black Mesa, the better it became. It helped that Dr. Straight had finally died. Bubby had only been trying to poison him for the past five years.

No matter how private Bubby was, Harold was infinitely more secure. He didn’t like people knowing his business. They’d been married for four years before Bubby had finally learned Harold’s social security number, and that was only because Harold had been sick during tax time. It was part of what had drawn Bubby to him in the first place. The mystery! The intrigue! The cute nose and great sense of humor!

“Professor… Bubby, thank you very much for joining us.” Mr. Coolatta said cooly.

“I will set you on fire.” Bubby pulled Harold up. “It’s _Doctor_.”

“Would you do the honors?” Harold gestured at the cake. Bubby _did_ like setting things on fire… and he’d already done his once-a-week burn on Mr. Coolatta. 

Bubby got all his fire in his fingertips, savoring the tingle, and _snapped_ , which wasn’t really necessary, but it was cool. Kind of like how motorcyclists wear leather jackets when denim would work just as well. Coincidentally, Bubby owned several leather jackets. He was _sure_ his glasses were glinting in the cool way that they only did when he wanted them to, like the old Anime videos Gordon had shown him. The invisible, super-heated flame hit the candle wicks and set them ablaze instantly. He shot Harold a glance and blew the tip of his finger like it was a gun, then crossed his arms again. Child’s play.

“That was delightful, dear!” The assembled interns and scientists tittered around them.

Things had been changing around Black Mesa, but no matter what changed, interns will be interns. Bubby glared down his nose at the group and picked out a few particularly annoying people in the crowd. One of them was Dr. Kleiner, for no reason. He just liked glaring at him.

He watched Harold bend over and blow out the candles, closing his eyes and making a wish. He didn’t know what he wished for, but he had a hunch. The card poked him again. He hadn’t even moved! 

… Maybe it was just his guilt.

Harold grabbed Bubby’s hand, interrupting his thoughts. He was getting very distracted today-

Oh, they were kissing. This was nice. It was a lot better than worrying about Gordon, or Harold -

Wait. _They were kissing in front of people._ “Dr. Coomer!” Bubby pulled back, startled, baffled, confused… Harold started laughing, then Tommy joined in, and Mr. Coolatta made some noise that could be qualified as a laugh. Dr. Kleiner gasped. 

“Professor Bubby and I would like to announce our marriage!” Harold said, and a gasp went through the crowd. Bubby mentally counted - almost forty people. He’d have to incinerate almost forty people. “We’ve been married for seven years now!”

See, when Bubby said that he and Coomer liked to wreak havoc, he meant it. They wreaked havoc in many, many ways. One of the funnest was fucking with people. Half of the scientists in the room were convinced that Bubby was stringing Harold along, playing with his affections in private and presenting a cold face to the world. The other half was convinced that Bubby was hopelessly in love with Harold, unable to show it for fear of opening up. Even Dr. Kleiner was convinced Bubby was smitten.

He hadn’t been _wrong,_ but still. Bubby liked having that air of mystery around him. The more people knew about him, the less he liked them.

Oh, they were kissing again. Fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound. He leaned into it, not really giving them a _show_ , but definitely enjoying himself. He felt a bit tingly, like a teenager all over again.

“Ah, uh - Bubby!”

“Is this… Normal, for a birthday party?” Mr. Coolatta’s voice was somehow louder than his son’s. Bubby jumped when the fire alarm started going off. Oh. That tingling must have been his pyrokinesis going off again. Whoops.

“Don’t - don’t just stand there! Somebody, go get a fire extinguisher!” Tommy’s voice pushed a few people into action - thankfully, The Fast One was the first out the door and down the hallway.

Unfortunately, Black Mesa was a hellscape where fires happened all too often. The sprinklers kicked on after a few seconds, pelting the group with slightly-less-than-brackish water. Half the assembly tried to run outside, but some just moved closer to the burning napkins, huddling for warmth.

“I didn’t mean for things to get so…” Harold started. Bubby immediately shut him up by kissing him again. “... Heated.” Bubby groaned and dropped his head to rest on Harold’s fluffy white hair. Wait, why wasn’t he wet?

Bubby looked up and around. The water was being repelled somehow, like they had Rain-X auras. That was kind of cool. It was probably because of Mr. Coolatta, but as long as the cake was okay, he didn’t care.

“Thank you!” Tommy shouted, grabbing the fire extinguisher The Fast One handed him and checking the tags. Once he made sure everything was OSHA compliant, he pulled the pin and sprayed.

Bubby waited to see if the cake would be okay. 

It was! He reached out and grabbed the serving knife and a plate, serving himself a slice of cake first - he stuck his finger in it just to be sure nobody else would take it - and set it to the side. The fire alarm stopped going off, and the sprinklers cut off; nobody on their side of the table seemed to notice. Just normal Black Mesa bullshit.

Mr. Coolatta’s phone went off and he excused himself, taking his slice of cake with him. Bubby patted his chest. Yep, the card was still there. He knew what he needed to do.

“Dr. Coomer, can I… speak to you outside?” Bubby asked once Dr. Kleiner stepped away from the table. “It’ll be quick.”

“Of course!” Harold agreed instantly. His slice of cake was already gone. Made sense; his PowerLimbs ran off carbs. Where had Bubby’s slice of cake gone? Whatever. More important things to worry about. They made their way outside, and Bubby wasn’t surprised to see Tommy follow them. Tommy could _read minds_ , of course he knew what Bubby was about to do.

 _“Please… Don’t tell Dr. Coomer I’m here!”_ Gordon’s voice echoed in his head. He pulled the card out of his pocket and handed it over to Dr. Coomer, who looked at the writing on the envelope with wide green eyes.

“Well? Open it!” Bubby encouraged. “We don’t have all day.”

“He - he didn’t want-” Tommy started. “We promised!” 

“You promised. I didn’t say shit.” Tommy glared at Bubby; _I can’t believe you’re betraying our very good friend’s trust!_ Bubby shrugged back. _Gordon is an idiot for not making me promise._ He’d been distracted at the time, but still.

“Okay, I’m finished!” Harold said, tucking the card away. He looked… concerned. Fidgety. 

“Good. Gordon’s back.”

“Gordon's back? But - Wait.” Harold’s face got all scrunched up. “He’s… he’s supposed to be in Dallas.”

“What? How did - have you been talking to him?” Tommy’s voice was disappointed and sad and worried all at once.

“No, nothing like that, Tommy!” Harold patted Tommy on the shoulder. “I’ve… been keeping tabs on his actions.”

“There’s no way in hell you actually had subdermal trackers planted in that boy.” Bubby said. His head was reeling; why hadn’t Harold told him? There was no reason for him to not tell Bubby about Gordon. No reason not to tell Tommy. Not when they were both so… So worried about Gordon.

There, he’d said it again.

“No, you’re right, Bubby. I didn’t install subdermal trackers, or anything of the sort. I discovered he was robbing banks shortly after he left Black Mesa!”

“...” Tommy and Bubby stared at Harold, then turned to look at each other.

“What the _fu_ -”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bubby: I don't care about Gordon at all! He fucked off and got what he deserved.  
> Also Bubby: Keeps a card so he can give it to Dr. Coomer, spends all day worrying about Gordon, decides to do the right thing and tell Coomer about the idiot in the hospital instead of hiding it, BONUS comforts Tommy to make him feel less weird because of his powers...
> 
> This chapter honestly gave he heck in a handbasket. I just wanted some cute Boomer moments, but... my brain... my fingers... they refuse...
> 
> Edits: I removed a lot of stuff that I didn't feel was 'organic' in the narrative. If you read it before the edits, you get the bonus headcanon info! if you read it after the edits, you're not missing much. It's all info that should pop up later in the story, anyway, if I'm halfway good at writing.
> 
> Honestly, this is the first long-term story I've written. You can see by my other works that I tend to be really good at picking things up and putting them down after a scene. I'm working on fleshing out my weaknesses, but this chapter felt a bit like a misstep, so I'm editing it. The new version just feels better to me.


	6. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I fuss and fight my curiosity, with welcome arms and frightened fingers, twitched anxiety_

Gordon didn’t know what he expected when he woke up. He hadn’t _expected_ to wake up, honestly. Part of his brain was still telling him that he’d died, that he’d bled out on that bank floor, and everything past the gunshot burst had been a hallucination, filled with his dying regrets.

If he _had_ died, he would forever regret not seeing Dr. Coomer again. It was like his subconscious knew that and made it so Dr. Coomer was the only one he didn’t see when he'd been dragged back into Black Mesa. G-Man, the one who’d fired him, and Tommy, the last one he’d seen before he was unceremoniously kicked out of Black Mesa, were obvious connections to a past full of regrets. Then there was Bubby, the man who he had saved in his phone as “Irascible Bastard” for a reason… A connection to Dr. Coomer, but not the same. Not _him_. 

He knew it was just his brain’s way of mocking him, not giving him the emotional catharsis of seeing Dr. Coomer again before he died, while also admitting that he couldn’t imagine meeting Dr. Coomer. Not after everything he’d done.

… But then he woke up. Again. In Black Mesa. Covered in… slightly less blood. 

Everything felt unreal. It was like the heist hadn’t happened yet, or had happened months ago. It almost felt as long ago as the Black Mesa Incident, which… okay. It was better than feeling like it had just happened. It was better than reliving it, over and over again, like he’d done with The Incident. He couldn't remember anything other than the press of metal and the sound of the gun. The pain... the anger... the _sadness_ had all drained away when he'd fainted earlier, throwing him back into some level of emotional equilibrium. 

Maybe his brain had erased his memories of the day? A handy little black-out to prevent the trauma from sinking in and breaking him. This year had been a double-whammy of trauma, after March and then... this. He'd never been good at ignoring his traumas; maybe he'd finally learned how to repress his emotions. Probably not healthy, but it helped him this time. He'd take the trade-off. Lose all knowledge of a day in exchange for not being absolutely traumatized around guns. How could he continue working if he wasn't comfortable around guns?

Ha. A little joke.

He finally let his eyes open. It was… oddly quiet. None of the hustle and bustle of other hospitals, none of the clanging and explosions of the actual Black Mesa facility. He felt like he was fifteen years old again, waking up after having his appendix removed. He'd laid in the room, alone, for hours before his parents came to sign him out and take him home...

Today definitely had the same feel to it. A layer of dissociation everywhere, coating the plastic and particle board furniture, covering his brain. That might just be the trauma, though.

The clock said it was sometime after lunch; he should probably talk to a doctor... see why the heck he was in the hospital to begin with. He wondered when he’d be able to leave. _If_ he’d be able to leave. 

Wait. He’d agreed to… work for G-Man.

Why the fuck had he done _that_?

-

Bubby led the way to the hospital, half ranting about Harold’s deceit, half muttering about kids turning his hair white, nevermind that it was already white when he’d met Gordon. Tommy giggled at some of the things he said and sighed at others, and Harold? Harold just followed them. There was the question on his face, _Why are we going to the hospital?_ , but Bubby didn’t know how to answer that, so he didn’t. 

They got off the elevator - thankfully an almost-normal one; the ones in the hospital had to be designed for medical staff, not potentially hazardous materials and passengers - and froze just outside the doors.

“Miss… I must ask, once again, if I may… have access… to room 2113…”

“And I’ve told you, it doesn’t matter who you are. If you’re not on the patient’s approved visitor list, you’re not getting in!”

“But…” 

“No buts!” 

Bubby and Dr. Coomer turned to look at Tommy.

“Miss, I must implore you… I need to speak to Dr. Freeman…”

“He’s a patient?” Harold asked, looking at Bubby and Tommy. Bubby winced; Tommy didn’t acknowledge him. Neither said anything.

“You can come back when the patient is able to speak to you.”

“... He uses sign language.”

The nurse sighed and glared. “He is not available right now, and I can’t amend his visitors list without his permission. Not to mention the fact that you are not his emergency contact. We have no way of confirming that you know the patient. You need to leave.”

“... May I please…”

“No.”

“... Have access to…”

“Sir, you’re not allowed in that room. Unless you are able to get confirmation from the patient that you are allowed, I cannot let you in.”

“... Miss, I do hate to… _pull rank_ , as it were, but I am… One of the CEOs of Black Mesa. I also have various… ah, ties? To the United States Government.”

“And I refuse to violate HIPAA.”

“...”

“If you’d like to wait for the patient, there are benches here in the hallway. Otherwise, I suggest you leave.”

“... D-Dad?” Tommy asked, stepping forward. “What are you-” Mr. Coolatta jumped and turned on the spot, looking the closest Bubby had ever seen him to startled.

“Tommy? I thought you promised… Dr. Freeman…”

“I didn’t promise shit. Is that my cake?” Bubby stepped closer to the man. “That _is_ my cake!”

Mr. Coolatta looked over Bubby's head at Dr. Coomer, dodging every attempt that was made on the cake without even having to look. It was like Bubby was reaching for a lenticular illusion that moved whenever his hand got close without actually moving. He was getting pissed. 

“Dear Bubby told me as soon as you left the room!” Dr. Coomer smiled and put his hand on his husband’s shoulder.

“...” Mr. Coolatta looked like he’d licked a lemon. He dodged Bubby’s more enthusiastic attempts - Bubby started aiming for the arms, not just the plate - and glanced between the three of them.

“So are - are you here to visit Mr. Freeman, too?”

“I… _was_ … but I was stopped…”

“How?”

“The Black Mesa Approved Visitors Only field.”

“Ah. Yeah, that’ll do it.” Bubby nodded. “Why don’t you just teleport in?”

“We are currently in a… No-Fly Zone.” 

“That - that means that special abilities are restricted by - by special equipment! I read all about it in the Black Mesa Personnel Protocol packet, revised last month!”

“Did you?”

“Yeah! It said the hospital and - the corporate office will have special - uh - abilities, like teleporting, blocked out for - for safety reasons.”

“That does make sense.” Harold nodded. “So you can’t get into Gordons room, then?”

“He… never added me as… an _approved_ … _visitor_ …”

“Really? Even I’m an approved visitor.” Bubby walked over to the door to room 2113 - Harold double checked to make sure it was really Gordon’s; seeing Gordon’s name on the sign made his chest clench with anxiety and hope. Bubby stuck his arm in and waved it around, showing off how un-activated the Black Mesa Approved Visitors Only field was. “See? Look at me go.” 

“Do you think we’re all still on the list?” Tommy asked. 

“Only one way to find out!” Harold chirped. To be clear, there were many other ways they could find out, but this _was_ the quickest. “After you, Tommy!”

“A-are you sure, though?” 

“Of course!” Harold gestured to Bubby, who was jumping in and out of the room and making faces at Mr. Coolatta. “Look at Bubby!”

“Okay.” Tommy nodded resolutely and stepped up to the door, then hesitated.

“It’s like the hokey-pokey.” Bubby said, stepping out of the room and sticking his hand in. “Just do it, come on!”

“I’m doing it!” Tommy had both of his arms held close to his chest, definitely not doing it. “I’m _doing_ it!”

“It does not hurt… _badly_ … if you are not… approved.” Mr. Coolatta said. “Considering your close relationship with Dr. Freeman and… how little he has been able to do today… I imagine you would still, ah, be on the list.”

Tommy slowly reached out, pushing his fingertips over the threshold, then a full hand well past the limit of the door. A smile grew on his face, then he was jumping excitedly, flapping his hands. “I’m on the list!”

“Now you, Harold!” Bubby said, pulling Tommy into the room. Harold saw him send Mr. Coolatta another smirk.

“Yeah, come on!” Tommy said with a grin.

“Well, if you insist!” Harold punched out with one roboarm, ecstatic when the Black Mesa Approved Visitors Only field didn’t activate. It… it was reassuring and worrying in the same way that seeing Gordon’s name beside the door had been. He felt his anxiety wobble inside him; it didn’t grow, but it didn’t shrink, either. 

What was Gordon doing in the hospital? Why was he in such bad shape? How had he gotten here from Dallas so quickly? Had he forgotten to change his medical contacts, or did he not care that they could enter his room? Did... did he _want_ them to visit him?

“Delightful!” He said aloud, punching again. Bubby grabbed his arm and tugged him into the room, pulling him into a group hug.

He wrapped his arms around Tommy and Bubby and picked them up. When he set them back down again, Tommy was giggling, and Bubby was complaining half-heartedly about bruises and rubbing his side. “You’re gonna snap me in half, Harold!”

“I haven’t yet!”

“I- I can’t wait to see Dr. Freeman again, guys! It’s been so long…”

“Didn’t you see him earlier?”

“We didn’t really have a chance to actually talk to him, Harold.”

“I see.” Harold’s anxiety wobbled like Jell-o on a bicycle.

“So much has changed! I need to tell him about Dad, and - and-”

“I am also very excited to see him again!” Dr. Coomer cut in. “I’ve missed him every day since he left!”

“I - I did, too!” Tommy laughed. 

“Well, he’s finally back, and we can make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.” Bubby said. “Little chicken-hat, running off for no reason…”

“Wait.” Tommy’s voice cut in. “Where… Where is he?”

“He’s not even in here?” Bubby’s voice sounded irate. “He ran off again!”

“Where could he be?” Tommy asked. “Do you know if he’s been discharged?”

“There’s nothing in here that belongs to him.” Dr. Coomer said. “I don’t even see a phone charger, or his glasses.”

“He might be getting discharged as we speak! We need to find him!” Bubby said.

“I - I hope everything’s alright!” Tommy said, loudly. “I really, really want to see him again!”

“Me too!” Dr. Coomer chirped. “I’ve missed him quite a lot! I hope we’ll be able to catch him before he leaves.” There were a few moments of silence, then Bubby spoke again.

“Fine. Fine! I missed him too! He’s like a stepson to me and I love him very much! Is that what you wanted me to say? Is that what you wanted to hear?” Bubby snapped. His words echoed in the empty hospital room, punctuated by a _beep_ from some machine. Tommy started snickering.

“We - we were just waiting for you to follow us, Bubby.” Tommy giggled.

“Yes, though it is quite nice to hear how much you care about dear Gordon!” Dr. Coomer’s voice sounded like it was coming from outside of the room now. “I know you’re not very demonstrative, but it’s important to let the people you care about know! We only ever have so much time together, Bubby, which is why I remind you that I love you every-”

“O-okay, guys, let’s _go!_ ” Tommy sighed. Dr. Coomer laughed.

“If Gordon is your stepson, does that make him my son?” Dr. Coomer asked.

“Obviously. Why else would he be my _step_ -son?”

“That’s good! I can’t wait to tell him!”

“Is that how… adoption… works?” G-Man spoke for the first time in a while.

“Not in a legal sense, though it does appear that we don’t follow legalities closely in this household!” Dr. Coomer's chipper voice responded.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us…” Bubby grumbled, barely audible.

Their bickering followed them down the hall, slowly fading into the distance.

Gordon let out his breath. He stared at the gap below the bathroom door and sighed, then laughed, then _lost_ it. He slid down the door, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe, running his hands over his face and wiping away tears. He couldn’t tell if they were tears of laughter or tears of-

 _They still liked him_. They still loved him. Even after everything he’d done! Leaving like he had, running away… 

He pushed his wet hair out of his face and sighed again, once the laughter had worked its way out of him, leaving him exhausted again. It had been his number one fear. That Dr. Coomer, or Bubby, or Tommy would ostracize him, cut him out, leave him behind. When Benrey had called with his… _opportunity_ , he’d taken him up on it. After all, what better way to keep people from rejecting you than to leave _them_ behind?

It had almost made sense four months ago. Why couldn’t he justify it to himself now?

Hell, he’d even insisted that they not tell Dr. Coomer about his return, as if that would actually stop them. He should have known that as soon as he said _not_ to do something, they would _run_ to do it. How long had Bubby waited before telling Dr. Coomer? He probably didn’t even make it past lunch. Bubby didn’t keep shit from Dr. Coomer; his own words, not Gordon’s. They just kept secrets from the rest of Black Mesa.

Secrets, like what he was doing right now. He’d heard them - they’d been right there, talking about how they missed him, how much they wanted to see him again, and he’d been too much of a damn coward to open the door. Hell, he would think he’d hallucinated the whole thing, but he didn’t think he’d be able to get Tommy’s inflection right. He’d let an opportunity to see them - to finally see _Dr. Coomer_ again - slide through his fingers.

What the fuck was he _doing_? Why was he such a fucking coward?

… He knew why. Dr. Coomer was the closest thing he’d had to a real parent. The thought of disappointing Dr. Coomer - doing anything less than his best to repay the man for everything he’d ever done for him - was too much to bear. Gordon actually preferred the thought of dying in a bank to disappointing one man he wasn’t even related to.

He laughed again. Why was he like this?

Probably all that good childhood emotional abuse. He pushed himself up and got dressed - he’d cut his shower short when he first heard voices and saw shadows underneath the bathroom door - mechanically putting the Black Mesa Standard Issue Hospital Pyjamas on, then sliding on the Black Mesa Standard Issue Comfortable Slippers. 

He picked up his phone from the side of the sink, where he’d left it. He’d changed his number - several times - since leaving Black Mesa, but he’d never gotten rid of theirs. His thumb hovered over _Harold Coomer_ for too long and the screen went black.

He kept doing that. Turning the screen on, taking a few steps toward the door, but never pressing the button. Turning the screen back on, taking a few more steps, not pressing the button. Standing beside the bed, turning the screen back on, staring at Harold’s contact… and not hitting the button. Never calling him. Never… reaching out.

God, _why_ was he like this?

They’d just - they’d just been there! They just said they wanted to see him again, they _wanted_ him around - they _missed him_. Him. The world’s biggest fuckup. The world’s biggest loser. The one who’d inadvertently killed dozens of people back in March and left to terrorize the _rest_ of the South and Southwest with gun violence and bank robberies, for fun and profit. 

He tugged at his hair, still hanging loosely around his shoulders as it dried, and rubbed the follicles between his fingers, smoothing them down in a tried-and-true anxiety tic. Maybe it _was_ alright. Maybe the world wasn’t quite… what he’d believed. Maybe they’d forgive him for all the things he’d done.

Would they want him around after they found out? How bad he’d fucked up? How much he’s _changed_? He wasn’t sure he wanted to be around himself, some days. As much as he wanted to come home, to be welcomed with wide open arms, he… he couldn’t believe that it would last.

Nothing ever did, for him.

He clicked the button again, pulling up his contacts screen. They all still had their phone numbers, pictures, profiles… Every time he got a new phone he’d download the pictures from his computer, type in the numbers. It wasn’t ‘starting fresh’. It was more like Subway - _eef freesh_.

He almost rolled his eyes at the Benreyism. Almost.

He glanced through his contacts. Benrey was right at the top, a little blue star next to his name. It used to mean he was an important contact, somebody Gordon texted all the time. Now it just made his stomach curdle.

Under that was _Harold Coomer_. Then _Irascible Bastard_. Then _LATTA COOL_ , the name Gordon had put in for Tommy within hours of meeting him. He thought he was clever back then, using irony and stupid jokes to cover up how intimidated he was by Tommy. He had a few other phone numbers - one or two burner phones from old heist contacts he hadn’t deleted, one _really_ good pizza place in Houston, and a few actual contacts to round his list out… but the most important ones were all clustered at the top, aside from Benrey’s. 

God, he felt like he should call him now, just to hear how surprised he’d be. _“That’s right, fucker! I’m alive! Can’t kill me that easily!”_... But he didn’t. He’d do his best to find that damn box without having to talk to Benrey. He didn’t know if he could survive talking to Benrey again.

The screen timed out on him… again. He clicked the button to turn it back on, putting in his passcode - a certain birthday - and looking at Harold’s icon again.

Dr. Coomer. _Harold Coomer_. His contact photo was a selfie - one of the only selfies Gordon had ever taken, and the _only_ one he’d used a Selfie Stick for. He’d set it around this time last year. Gordon never changed Harold’s name, not even after he’d lived with him for six months after college, or when he’d co-signed his car loan. If _Harold Coomer_ was all that he was, there was no fear in losing that connection. There was no reason to worry about not talking to Harold if he was just an old business associate, right? If he kept telling himself that, he might believe it one of these days.

His finger twitched, some combination of anxiety and nerves and stress and worry and dying and coming back to life and potential nerve damage and repetitive motion injuries making his thumb poke Harold’s contact photo. He watched, frozen, as he heard it ring - distantly - once, twice, three times, before Harold picked up.

“Gordon?” Harold Coomer asked, excited and cheerful - Gordon could already hear Bubby in the background, and Tommy talking over them both. How did Dr. Coomer know it was him? “Gordon, I don’t understand - it’s quite impossible to use sign language over the phone, and it doesn’t appear that our connection is strong enough for a 'video call'!”

“That little chicken hat better not say a damn word. He can text you.” Bubby’s voice groused, and Gordon remembered that yeah, Bubby’s first concern when he popped out of nowhere had been his voice, hadn’t it?

“Mr. Freeman, you need to just - just send us a text, okay?” Tommy said.

“If it is Gordon. You could be confusing the hell out of a telemarketer right now.” Gordon snorted at Bubby’s interjection. He couldn’t help it.

He hung up. _I’m upstairs,_ he texted. He continued to stand next to the hospital bed and stare at his phone, waiting to see if he’d get a read receipt from Coomer, but he didn’t. He sighed. 

His fingers unconsciously made their way to his forehead, ghosting over the once bloody skin, pushing his hair behind his ears. He’d… he’d been shot. And come back to life. And the first thing his friends did after seeing him… was fret over him. Why hadn’t he realized it before? Why had he tried to push them away?

He felt thin paper napkins against his forehead instead of fingers, instead of metal. Gentle fingertips that carefully, yet firmly, wiped blood away, clearing skin with rough, cheap paper. Tommy had treated him like he was still bleeding, like it was important not to hurt him again. He heard Bubby’s voice over G-Man’s, the creep being shut up for once instead of talking over everybody like he owned the room. _“Gordon uses sign language, respect his needs!”_ He’d always been like that, hadn’t he? Bubby didn’t fuss over his friends like they were delicate. He raged at the world around them for daring to hurt them.

Gordon dabbed at his cheeks. He’d been so blind.

He sighed and tossed his phone on the bed, waiting for them to come back. It hadn’t been that long - they could be here any minute. Something moved out of the corner of his eye.

He glanced out the window just in time to see Dr. Coomer punch straight through it, sending glass daggers through the air as he came barreling through the hole he made. He landed in the middle of the hospital room and Gordon stared, frozen, as he patted himself off. 

“Hello, Gordon!”

“Coomer -” Gordon’s hands stuttered. Noises came from his mouth, but not words. “How in - what - _why_ -”

“Gordon, you had us quite worried!” Coomer dusted glass off him like it was desert sand. He shrugged and adjusted his coat, which had been slightly ruffled by the leap.

“Ah - Jesus, but- Whut-” Gordon stared out the suddenly open window. He heard shouting in the distance; he didn’t have to guess who. “ _Why_ , Dr. Coomer?” He signed, patting himself down. He was so lucky he hadn’t been cut to ribbons by the flying glass. In fact, none of the glass had flown close to him - anything that came close to his feet had skidded along the floor. Dr. Coomer knew how to break windows with minimum casualties. Yeah, that tracked.

Nobody inside the hospital seemed to have noticed the noise or the sudden breeze. Typical. Typical Black Mesa bullshit.

“Gordon.” Dr. Coomer’s voice pulled Gordon’s attention back. “Would you like a hug?”

Gordon’s brain screeched to a halt. “Whu?” Gordon’s hands did their best half-assed _what_ and dangled limply.

Coomer spread his arms wide open, inviting Gordon. “Would you like a hug, Gordon?”

“... Yes.” Gordon nodded, stepping closer, thankful for the Black Mesa slippers he’d been given - he stepped cautiously, one foot in front of the other, trying to pick his way across the glass-covered floor. Dr. Coomer grinned and suddenly closed the distance; his arms wrapped around Gordon’s torso and he squeezed just the perfect amount. Just tight enough to press Gordon’s soul back into his body, but not so tightly he couldn’t breathe. It was perfect. It… it was just what Gordon needed.

Then he was flying through the air as Coomer launched him at the bed. 

He couldn’t help the noise that came out of his mouth as he flew. It was something between a _Waugh_ and an _Eargh_ , and it came out really, really high pitched. It was _not_ a scream!

It _wasn’t!_

He was infinitely glad that the bed wasn’t covered in glass shards, and he twisted, trying to see Dr. Coomer as he stepped on the glass. It crunched under his thick-soled shoes and Gordon winced. It reminded him of when he’d had the breath knocked out of him on a heist, and he’d had to sit, paralized, as a security guard crunched his way over to him, the alarm blaring in the background, tension rising… Benrey had launched out of a side hallway and shoved the guard out of the way, locking the safe door behind him, and lifted Gordon like he was nothing.

Gordon didn’t have the luxury of backup here. He’d dug his own grave. 

“Gordon, you left us behind!” Coomer said. He was cheerful, but there was an edge, something sharper than shattered glass in his eyes. Gordon felt fear well up inside him; this was it, his brain said; this is where Dr. Coomer tells you that he’s disappointed and never wants to talk to you again, see your face… 

The worst part about irrational fears is that they’re _irrational_ and don’t listen to reason. Gordon couldn’t help the tears that sprung to his eyes as Dr. Coomer took another step toward the bed.

“You had us very worried, leaving suddenly, leaving us all behind with no knowledge of where you were going or what had happened.” Dr. Coomer’s voice lowered half an octave. He sighed, looking away from Gordon, making Gordon’s heart clench. “... What did we do? Why don’t you trust me anymore?”

“I -” His mouth opened automatically and he got half a word out before he cut himself off. Talking to G-Man earlier must have messed with his brain. He didn’t _like_ talking, why did he keep doing it? He brought his hands up, almost cringing away from Dr. Coomer as the man looked at him again, green eyes pinning him to the bed. How could he explain? “You didn’t _do_ anything- I thought you’d be disappointed in me. I - I couldn’t stand the thought of hurting you after everything you’d done…”

Dr. Coomer took one more step, coming just close enough to reach out and rest his hand on Gordon’s leg. The warmth seeped through the thin pyjama fabric easily. “Gordon, I could never be disappointed in you. I’m too proud of everything you’ve done and everything you’ve overcome.” Dr. Coomer’s smile was warm, warmer than his hands, warmer than the sun. Warmer than the desert air that was blowing in through the empty window frame. “You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a son, Gordon. I love you.”

“I’m sorry.” Gordon’s thumb dragged against his shirt as he rubbed his fist in tight circles on his chest, tears sliding down his cheeks. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Welcome home, Gordon.” Dr. Coomer bent over and hugged Gordon around the shoulders, squeezing him just the perfect amount again. “We don’t care if you’re gainfully employed, or streaming video games, or robbing banks. We just want to hear from you! We’re family, right?”

“Family, yeah.” Gordon grinned as he signed, pressing his face against Coomer’s shoulder, feeling the old man’s wiry hair on his cheek. Family. He’d… he’d always considered them family, but he never said it before. It felt like a dam had burst. He finally allowed himself to tell the truth, to say that he loved these people, that he relied on them. He moved his arms to hug Coomer back, just loving the warmth that came through the Black Mesa Standard Issue Hospital Pyjamas as he leaned on him.

“Wait. Who told you about the banks?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Long time, no see! I hope everybody enjoyed it. I'm figuring out this whole "long form writing" thing as I go along.
> 
> I really appreciate all the feedback! I got a lot of positivity for the last chapter, but I did go back and change a few things. Nothing major, but I felt like some of the things I tossed in there impeded the flow of the story. I think it flows a bit better now, and I'm gonna hold off on any other major edits until I get to the end of this thing.
> 
> This story is going to be... pretty long. I really hope people stick around, because it's gonna keep going. Probably 20 chapters, maybe a bit longer. We'll see! I'm having a blast with it so far, even if the words don't always wanna come out right.


	7. Black Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You leveled everything I ever loved._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! There are some instances of body horror in this chapter - tentacles, but the biggest description of gore is in the paragraph after "His hand found the knife." If you skip that one, and paragraph after "He growled when Benrey took another step towards him... Benrey almost didn't seem affected and he realized why.", you should avoid most of it. Let me know if I missed anything else that needs tagged, or if you just have general constructive criticism! I've never written an action scene before...

Forzen hesitated. His hand fell off Benrey’s shoulder, dropping limply to his side. What could he say? The fucking truth, he guessed. Keep it simple for the stupid. He opened his mouth to say something, anything.

“The Thousands told me about a day before the last heist.” Forzen finally grit out. Benrey deserved the truth. At least a little bit. Benrey was still looking at him. Staring. Not blinking, with that shitty fake smile on his face. It was pissing him off. Of course Benrey had figured it out. Just a few days after he’d started acting _normal_ again. He was almost proud.

“So it was _you_.” Benrey’s voice was so low Forzen couldn’t hear the words over the few cars on the highway, just the mumble. He was good at reading lips, though. It came with working with Freeman for so long. 

He could play ignorant, but there was no way Benrey would buy it. No amount of “huh?”s or “what?”s could get him out of this. There wasn’t enough time to think. Forzen raked his brain, trying to come up with some kind of explanation, something to mollify Benrey, but nothing came to mind. 

He’d - he’d done it to keep them _safe_. If Benrey had been honest from the start, they wouldn't be in this mess, and honestly? Honestly, it pissed him off. Benrey brings on some shit guy from nowhere and now Forzen had to deal with the consequences - again. Like Benrey’s personal fucking janitor.

“I did it to protect us, Benrey.” Forzen said, his tone as close to pleading as it had ever been. He hoped it would be enough to stop Benrey’s fit.

He had. It didn’t matter what Benrey believed because it was the truth. Just because Benrey couldn’t fucking handle it didn’t mean shit. He’d done it to keep them _safe..._

Freeman had been hired to follow them around until Black Mesa could get them back, and there was no way he would believe otherwise. It made too much sense. He popped out of nowhere, knowing all about bank security systems and safe hacking and camera hardware and why? Just because he was bored? Just because he’d ‘read up on it’ since Benrey reached out? No. He was being paid and being _taught_ and manipulated, just like them. And _that_ was why he’d died. Because Forzen didn’t need a fucking fast pass back to Black Mesa.

Just because Benrey had a shitty fucking crush on the guy didn’t mean Freeman wasn’t a snitch. Hell, that’s probably why they sent Freeman in the first place. If they really were friends… or if Benrey was just hanging around Freeman half as much as he said, then Black Mesa would have noticed it, would have taken advantage of Benrey’s ‘friendship’. If Benrey had been honest from the start, he could have at least avoided killing the fucking nerd. Murder was something he didn’t want to do, but if he had to to keep himself safe, he would. He would kill without remorse if it meant never going to Black Mesa again.

Silence. Even through the quiet, out here somewhere between Bum and Fuck and Nowhere, a pressure grew. It felt like a tornado bearing down on them. Then Benrey started laughing, a mad cackle that chilled him.

“You don’t protect somebody by shooting them in the back, Forzen!” Benrey shouted, his voice coming out suddenly, like a sonic boom. It distorted Benrey’s voice. It sounded like it was coming from everywhere, all around Forzen. A chorus of poorly-recorded demons assaulted his ears. “You don’t shoot a - a fuckin - you don’t shoot a _bro_ in cold blood!”

Forzen almost laughed. Freeman hadn’t been a _bro_. Freeman had been another way to get what he wanted. A handy distraction for Benrey, so he wouldn’t have to be constantly annoyed. But a bro? A _friend_? Forzen had enough of those. He had Benrey, and Kruhger, and The Thousands, and Gore, and yeah, Freeman had been entertaining sometimes, but that was it. He didn’t have time for humans the way Benrey did.

“Grow the fuck up. Freeman wasn’t a friend. He was a fucking _pawn_ that Black Mesa was using to keep us under control.” He was barely able to grit out. It was like riding in the bed of a truck; the pressure pulled the words out of his mouth, breathing was hard. Even in this still, windless plain, he couldn’t help but choke on air.

Something was changing in Benrey, something Forzen didn’t know and didn’t want to find out about. He jumped back, gave himself some space. It felt like moving through water. His movement was hindered by the pressure all around. 

“Bro, where you going? I thought you wanted to uhhh…” Benrey cackled again. Fuck, he could be creepy when he wanted to.

Forzen commanded his muscles to grow, to change, and they did, growing under his skin, writhing like snakes, twisting and curling and tightening as he got ready to make his next move. He grew, like he always did when he and Benrey fought; he had to keep him in line. Had to win.

When he looked up, Benrey wasn’t looking at him. All thoughts of arguing back flew out of his mind.

Benrey’s face was dark, the sun streaming from behind him, a hellish, fiery halo that painted the sky redder and redder with each passing minute. Forzen cursed under his breath. Benrey’s mouth was open in a demented grin, saliva dripping down his chin, his teeth sharper than they had any need to be. His arms were still thin twiggy things, but the hands had turned into claws, like some of the scientists had the day they escaped that hellhole, like his own did sometimes. He was starting to hunch over, like something was dragging him down -

Forzen could kind of see through to Benrey’s chest, where his hands had accidentally ripped his shirt. It wasn’t skin anymore. It looked like a thin blood-red welt was opening, splitting Benrey up and down his ribcage.

He tried to put more distance between them, struggled against the heavy air to push, further, faster than before. He had an idea about what was happening. 

“Fuck-!” he jumped out of the way as a massive tentacle speared out of Benrey’s shirt, shredding what remained, slamming into the ground just behind where he’d been standing. He looked back, running away from his demented brother and toward the highway. It was practically deserted, but he just needed some distance. Something to give him a second to think. He’d always been the better fighter. He just had to -

The ground exploded next to him, and he stumbled. Benrey was quicker than he normally was. He chanced a glance back, thought about teleporting -

Teleporting took focus, though. He wasn’t sure he could do it when he was too busy thinking of what to do with Benrey.

Forzen scrambled to his feet, his brain running two paths at the same time. One half of him was concerned with the _what_ \- what he had to do, what he had on him to defend himself, what he _could_ do to defend himself. It was the fight in his fight-or-flight brain. He had to stop Benrey, end this shitty little temper tantrum. He had a knife on him he could use - not his first choice - or he could brute-force his way to Benrey’s brain. Hard reset.

The other half, the _why_ half, was laughing maniacally. Of course it was. Because Benrey was trying to fucking _kill_ him the only way they _thought_ they could die. 

Whatever they were made out of, they couldn’t die the same way humans did. Blunt force, car accidents, electrocution, being ripped apart, drowning, whatever - nothing stuck. The only thing they thought could do it was being eaten. Because - well, it’s hard to use your energy to come back when something else is using it, too. Benrey had been the one to come up with it. Forzen was apparently going to be the first one to test it out.

He had a bit of a head start on Benrey, at least. He tried timing the strikes when they came, but there really wasn’t a pattern or a tell that he could see, running away from Benrey. He looked over his shoulder to try to piece the action together and figure out what he needed to do.

He could try to tackle him, but getting close was a shit idea. The tentacle-tongue hit something else, and Benrey made a _noise_. Forzen couldn’t even describe it, it was just - a low, horrible, awful noise. It reverberated in his chest, and he felt his skeleton shaking. He put his head down and ran harder, faster.

Benrey was hunched forward while he ran, which made the tentacle aim lower - good. He could use that. Benrey was moving faster than he normally ran, too. His breathing was labored. His arms were still thin twiggy things that almost dangled at his sides, like they weren’t necessary for what Benrey was planning. 

But who gives a fuck about what Benrey is planning on doing when he’s literally never won a fight against Forzen? Forzen was the better fighter, the better planner, the better _everything_. That’s why he was in charge and Benrey followed like a good little boy.

Forzen timed the strikes as they happened, zig-zagged to evade, jumped when he had to, and when Benrey was close enough that he could almost kick him, he planted his foot in the gravel and twisted, whipping his hand out and catching the tentacle instead of jumping away. It was almost like a fucked-up game of tag, not that they’d ever played. 

He wrapped the tentacle around his arm, and tried not to look at his brother. Fucker was moving faster than he had any right to. He wrapped it around his arm once, twice, pulling Benrey forward. It was more muscle than spongy tissue and it tugged at Benrey’s torso, making him stand straighter, pulling him off balance. Good. Forzen’s other hand went to his knife.

He’d done it all to keep them safe. Why couldn’t Benrey understand that? Even if he’d fucked up, it wasn’t like it would matter in fifty years. Benrey would get over it. What mattered - what _really_ mattered - was that they were free, safe from Black Mesa.

And if he had to… _subdue_ Benrey to make sure they got out of this fight alive, he’d do it. 

His planted foot stuck into the ground and he pulled, yanking Benrey forward. He squeezed hard, held onto the tentacle as he lunged, Benrey forced out of balance from the unusual accompaniment he had grown. Forzen pulled on the tentacle and _slammed_ Benrey’s face into his knee. Benrey’s nose was probably broken, but that didn’t matter. He had to hurt him more - knock him out, do _something_ to snap him out of this.

Benrey did something, shrinking the tentacle while Forzen was distracted. The noise that came out of his mouth was almost normal. Almost Benrey.

As close as they were, Forzen felt he could get a good slash in still - just because he didn’t have his grip didn’t mean he wouldn’t fucking try. He’d been beheaded before - Benrey could survive that too, right? 

Before he had a chance to test his hypothesis, Benrey tacked him to the ground. It wouldn’t have worked if it were anybody else. Maybe one of the larger aliens in Black Mesa could have knocked Forzen down, but a human? One of the smaller aliens? No chance. Benrey was scrappy, dense, physically and mentally. Forzen dropped his knife in surprise, but he grabbed onto Benrey’s shoulders and grappled him, holding him out at arm's length. Scrabbling on the ground with his other hand, he searched for the knife; ignoring the claws that dug into the arm he held against Benrey’s neck. The tentacle was back, and he felt it stab through his stomach, through to his spine - to the ground on the other side of him. He was stuck. He was pinned. _But not paralyzed._

He looked up, into Benrey’s face. His _brother’s_ face. The only other being who knew all the dark secrets of Black Mesa. Benrey’s eyes were wide and vacant, glassy, like too many of the dead bodies he’d seen in the labs the day they escaped. His pupils took over his entire iris, nothing left of the blue. The black was inviting - something about the abyss just made him want to fall, fall up. He forced his skeleton to right itself, even with the severed spine.

Saliva and bile and blood dribbled out of the rend on Benrey’s chest, covering Forzen and soaking his shirt, but at that moment, he couldn’t really care… because he saw something flickering in Benrey’s chest and open mouth. Something that warped with the heaving of Benrey’s chest, keeping time with his breathing, growing brighter, stronger.

 _The Song of Death_.

His hand found the knife.

The front of Benrey’s tattered shirt dangled around them, soaked with bile from his open stomach, ripped from sternum to where he figured a belly button would go. The edge was raised and he could see the ribs acting as teeth, bloodied, sticking out in grotesque places. They heaved and hinged, moving slightly, like they were opening and closing, like he was going to chew through Forzen’s chest. Everything evil in Benrey was coming out, his black-and-blood dripping, sliding down Forzen’s cut arms like pitch tar. His claws struggled against Forzen’s arm, trying to pry it off his neck, trying to get just a little bit closer - trying to strangle and maim and all that other fun stuff. Trying to get his mouth into range for a direct hit.

Forzen gave Benrey one last look in the eyes, waiting - watching for something to come out. All he saw was Benrey’s true ugly nature. A mix between human and alien, something that didn’t deserve to live. Just like him.

He took the grip of the knife and turned it in his hand. It was one of the combat knives he’d gotten for his work in security, something to protect the scientists of the stupid facility from the _experiments_. He supposed this time it would be used in self-defense.

He cut through the tentacle, not listening to the dull roar that fell out of Benrey when he did. The flickering light almost went out. Knife still in his hand, covered in black ichor, he stabbed upwards, twisting when he felt it hit.

Benrey jumped back, scrambling. The pain had cut through the madness; recognition flickered in his eyes, and the pupils began to shrink. Forzen saw the blue, even from the ground. Forzen focused on knitting his spine together first, watching with half an eye as Benrey did the same. Benrey pulled the knife out of his stomach and threw it to the side.

“Are you fucking finished?” Forzen asked. He should have known better than to ask while he was in the dirt. Benrey’s laser-blue eyes focused on him and he almost - _almost_ \- flinched. The vacant anger had finally left Benrey’s face. 

Now it was _focused_ anger, laser-sighted on Forzen.

Forzen barely had time to flinch before Benrey kicked him in the balls. He had an insanely high pain tolerance, but even he wasn’t made out of steel. Sick traveled up his esophagus as he heaved, the pain and shock making him spew on the ground. He rolled over, his spine barely being held together. His fractured vertebrae ground together as he heaved and moaned.

This… this wasn’t normal. Benrey normally gave up after getting hit once or twice. Being stabbed and slashed and punched wasn’t his thing. He _hated_ violence. So why was he attacking so hard? Why was he lashing out like this?

Forzen took another kick to the side, flipping him over again. He laid on his side and looked up at Benrey, who was dripping blood from his face and stomach and the stubby tentacle that still stuck out of his torso. The maw along his chest shifted with each breath he took.

Those blue eyes were staring at him again.

It pissed Forzen off.

Who did Benrey think he was? Who did Benrey think _Gordon_ was? Why the fuck was he this upset about the death of a shitty loser like that?

“You think you can kill me?” Forzen shouted, trying to push himself up, trying to make his body stand up. Without his spine and abdomen intact, it was hard - hard to be imposing. “You fucking can’t, Benrey. Just give up.”

A high-pitched squeal shot out of Benrey’s mouth, the rainbow orbs flying through the air. It was barely a song, much less a _song of death_ , but Forzen knew what Benrey could do with that little ability of his. He’d watched Benrey burn the skin off zombies with it, alter the state of mind of scientists, cut off psychic links for the scientist’s _experiments_ … He knew better than to let it touch him.

He stumbled back, forcing his energy to his stomach, trying hard to knit muscle and skin together as quickly as possible. His knife was still on the ground, behind Benrey. He couldn’t reach it in time. He tried to stand but the world shifted under his feet and he fell to his knee.

This wasn’t it. This _couldn’t_ be it.

He hadn’t fought, scrabbled, kicked and clawed his way out of Black Mesa just to die in the desert. Just to be killed by _Benrey_.

He growled when Benrey took another step towards him. There was something fucking smug in the way he was walking, Forzen couldn’t put his finger on it - but it pissed him off. It pissed him off enough to launch at Benrey, flimsy core and all. He tackled Benrey, wrapping his arms around his torso and squeezing so hard he thought he’d cut through. Benrey almost didn’t seem affected and he realized why. 

The maw that he’d grown had changed his bone structure - the ribs were held in place by new, dense bone, making a terrible vertical jaw down his sides. Benrey had made himself a layer of armor inside his chest.

Benrey _laughed_ , and Forzen felt the ribs turn inward, grabbing him and pulling him in. No. _No_ , it couldn’t end like this. He wouldn’t be killed in some kind of fucked up intergalactic cannibalistic show.

Forzen wasn’t as innately talented with the Sweet Voice as Benrey was. He could do it - but not well, not often. He screamed, pushing with everything he had, trying to make it happen, bring the colors out. He coughed as the first one flew out of his mouth - then the next, and suddenly there was a deluge of Sweet Voice, flying straight into Benrey’s face.

It worked. Benrey let go of Forzen and shoved him away, throwing him on the ground like he was trash. Forzen rolled around, trying to get on Benrey’s side, where he could reach his knife again. It wasn’t much but it was better than bare fists - or claws.

Benrey’s eyes were filled with fear, a melancholy darkness coming back over them. He stood, frozen, for a second too long.

Forzen grabbed his knife and stood up. His abs weren’t 100% yet, but that’s okay. He would be fine. The ground was more solid under his feet and he stumbled forward, twisting his wrist, ready to strike -

Benrey jumped back out of range. Forzen grinned. Just like it should be. Benrey on the back foot, Forzen in the lead. He flicked the blood and dirt off against his pants and took another menacing step. Benrey stared.

Then Benrey _grinned_. He took two quick steps towards Forzen and slapped the knife out of Forzen’s hand when he went to slash. His other hand snapped out and grabbed Forzen around the throat, lifting him up.

Forzen wasn’t as good at Sweet Voice, but that didn’t mean it had a different effect. He could only project his own emotions - what he’d been feeling. What he’d been able to force into the Sweet Voice. And what had he been feeling right before screaming in Benrey’s face?

Cocky. Confident. _Cautious._

_Afraid._

His feet left the ground and he kicked out, catching Benrey just to the side of the groin. He tried to force his neck to grow thicker, protect the thin column, keep himself alive through this fight -

Benrey laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. It wasn’t anything like the chuckles he overheard from Gordon’s room every night, or the next aisle over in the gas stations, or even the low, half-amused huffs Benrey would share with Gordon on jobs. This wasn’t even like the vindictive cackle he’d let loose earlier. This laugh was devoid of humor. It was just a reaction to Forzen’s struggles. The dark, ugly part of Benrey’s persona coming out to wreak havoc.

“You’re _scared_.” Benrey said, his voice like static on a radio transmission. “You’re _scared_ of me and what I’ll do to you. Is that it?” His ribs shifted and _ticked_ against each other like skeleton teeth. “I fucking hate you, Forzen. I hate you with my _whole life_ -” Benrey’s throat started to flicker again and his voice shifted. It grew in pitch and flowed out like wine.

Forzen clenched his eyes and focused on his knife. He zapped to it, teleporting like a shitty RP in the comments of a Youtube video. Benrey’s voice flickered out again.

He had to end this.

Forzen lunged, slashing out with his knife. It wasn’t his preferred close-combat weapon, but it would do. He just had to - to do _something_ -

He stabbed Benrey in the arm, relishing when his brother screamed. He sawed, cutting down, biting into bone with the serrated edge near the base. Benrey grabbed his hand and pulled. Forzen fought back, using his other hand to punch Benrey in the face, making him stumble back, trip over the ground.

Finally… Forzen was winning again. Just like he knew he would. 

He quickly stepped over to Benrey and kicked him in the chest, once, then again, then _again_ , each one harder than the last. He felt a rib break off - good. Anything to beat some _sense_ into him.

He dragged him back to where the bags sat, hoping that it would bring him back, even just a little bit. Forzen would drop him and kick him and pick him up again, or drag him across the gravel and dirt. He kept track of how many times he lifted Benrey up into the air to throw him down. Three times. It felt good.

Benrey took a few good hits before he collapsed near his bags, groaning. Forzen stepped up, watching as the tentacle base seemed to scab over, an invisible scar that would be healed within the next day. It certainly seemed to leave Benrey’s gaping chest empty. The ribs stayed splayed open, a red ruin.

He couldn’t see any more flickering, no more lights in Benrey’s throat. He almost sighed in relief. Sweet Voice - what Benrey called it, not that the stupid scientists names for it were any fucking better - was dangerous. It could ruin a day or save a life, depending on how Benrey or Forzen or Kruhger felt. It always came more naturally to Benrey.

“Wake the fuck up, Benrey!” Forzen shouted, a little proud when the sharpness of his voice made Benrey startle. “He’s not coming back, and taking me out of the picture just because your _stupid little crush_ is dead won’t do anything. Grab your shit. Follow me. We’ll go somewhere where you can get the fuck over it.”

Benrey’s eyes flickered up, blue irises flashing. His face wasn’t shrouded in shadow anymore. The sky above was blood red, fading - fading like the will to fight in Benrey’s face. Good. Benrey looked around, down at his stomach, his chest, the red and black seeping into his tattered former work shirt. Of course it was one of the button-ups from Black Mesa. The little loser _was_ like a hoarder. Never got rid of shit.

Forzen thought he’d won the fight. He watched as Benrey looked around, seeming to come back to himself more with each passing second, the anger fading away. Benrey lurched to his feet, too far away for Forzen to offer a hand, not that he would have anyway.

He tilted oddly, whirling around on one foot to his bags, just behind him. Forzen took a step closer. Benrey grabbed Gordon’s old duffle bag and shoved it into his still-open chest, and suddenly Forzen knew what he was doing.

“Benrey-!”

Benrey held the other duffle bag up, against his chest - it was so big Forzen could see it on either side of his torso, his arms wrapped around it like a comically large bear hug. Benrey pressed his forehead against the material, and from behind, it almost looked like he was praying, head bent in reverent silence as dusk settled around them.

And then Benrey disappeared.


	8. Love Protocol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I'm alone. Watch me float as I fall._

Benrey teetered on the edge of losing himself completely, falling, giving into the darkness and madness. He wanted to. He wanted to _so much_ because it wasn’t like there was anything worth living for anymore - Gordon Freeman was dead. His brother was dead to him. Whatever he was saying flowed over Benrey, but he didn’t listen to the words. He wasn’t going to let the wrong one into his ears anymore.

His first rib broke off, and even though he’d lost a tentacle and blood and been beat worse than Forzen had ever beaten him, he didn’t want to stop, he wanted to keep fighting, keep going until Forzen was gone. He wanted to rip into Forzen and tear him to shreds, bury him and soak the dirt with his blood, feel his muscles get shredded in his hands. Take a chunk out of Forzen and kill him, like he’d killed Gordon. Even if Forzen killed him, too.

But in one of the rolls - in one of the tosses - he saw that duffel bag. The one he’d carried out of the bank. He’d filled it with Gordon’s stuff in the hotel, he’d carried with him for the past few weeks. It held what remained of Gordon’s life. Everything Benrey had been trying to protect since March.

He had to get out - keep Gordon alive, too. Even if it was only inside his head. Even if… Even if he’d already failed.

He couldn’t die here.

He landed one last time, but instead of facing that duffel bag, he was facing Forzen. His face was covered in blood and black and scuffed up, he was holding that knife in his left hand, casually, like he was about to… fuckin. Open the mail or some shit.

Open the male. Haha… Wait.

Benrey’s hand trembled as it softly lingered on the edge of his chest. He… he had an idea. No idea if it would work, but… It wasn’t like he had anything to lose, at this point. As long as he had Gordon’s bag… He could keep him alive, inside his head. Inside his heart.

He wobbled when he stood. Forzen wasn’t moving - wasn’t doing anything. Good. He probably thought he’d won. He was always cocky like that. Benrey spun on the spot, almost losing his balance - the lack of a tentacle had fucked up his equilibrium - and reached for the bags. First one, in the maw, thank you - 

_“Benrey-!”_

\- Second one, too big. He hugged it, trying to press as much of it inside the bounds of his person as possible. A new center of gravity - center of mass - center of his universe. He’d keep Gordon safe. He’d do a better job this time. Forzen would never find Gordon again.

He was so focused on Gordon, his smile, his confident hands, the way his hair tangled in his sleep -

Then he was falling.

-

He’d sat around long enough. No matter how much he wanted to stay here, with Dr. Coomer - Harold - and Bubby, who was coincidentally also a Dr. Coomer, he couldn’t. He had been hired by G-Man - Mr. Coolatta - Tommy’s dad - _God, so much had changed while he was gone_ \- to get a box, so he was… gonna go get the box.

As soon as he was done packing. And, well, knew where it was.

The past few weeks had been restful. No more falling asleep to the sound of police scanners, no more dirty motel rooms, no more cheap fast food on the road because they didn’t have a kitchen. He’d slid into the Coomer’s routine so easily… It felt like coming home. It _was_ coming home. Every time he walked through the door, Harold would welcome him _home_ and…

And he didn’t deserve it.

“He still doesn’t know?” Bubby asked.

“No, he doesn’t know, and he’s not gonna know!” Gordon signed, looking for his - ah, there it was. “Guys, guys - Dr. Coomer doesn’t need to know that I died. It’s not essential knowledge.” Mr. Coolatta had apparently… ‘let it slip’ that Gordon had been murdered. Then Harold somehow figured out that he’d been robbing banks, and now Bubby and Tommy knew that he’d been _murdered_ while _robbing a bank_. 

Neither of them were particularly happy that he was leaving so soon after they found _that_ out. It’d been almost two weeks and they still made sure he was basically babysat every time he left the house, or would be alone in the house, or was quiet for too long. He was surprised he hadn’t woken up to Bubby standing over him with a mirror yet. 

Actually- “You - _you two_ don’t need to know that I died! And you don’t need to know who killed me!” He paused for a second too long. “Because I - I don’t know for sure, myself, but when I do know, I’m gonna kill them right back. Alright? End of problem.” Gordon gestured and shot a look at Tommy and Bubby.

Tommy and Bubby shared their own look, but didn’t say anything. Good. Maybe he could keep packing.

He’d gotten used to traveling light on the road, carrying only what he could run in the night with - he always got teased for being weak, so he tried not to ask for help. He… he wondered what happened to his stuff. He’d - he’d had a lot of… t-shirts he was kind of sad he’d never see… again. Right. T-shirts.

“So - so what are you going to be doing?” Tommy asked for the millionth time. “You - never, uh, tell us about - about the things. That you, um. Did. Or are… doing.”

“Tommy, you have a sterling silver moral compass.” Gordon signed, grinning a bit so it didn’t come off as condescending. Tommy grinned back. “I don’t want to tell you because I’m afraid you’re gonna hate me if I do.” Avoiding the question hadn’t worked before. Maybe being flippant about the truth would.

“We - I could never hate you, Mr. Freeman!” Tommy sounded offended. Bubby made a noise. “I - I’m just curious, is… all.”

“I never killed anyone. Not yet.” Gordon signed. 

“That’s good. I can’t imagine a chicken-hat-wearing-baby like you doing anything like that.” Bubby said. Gordon laughed. “What about me, though? You’re not afraid of me hating you?”

“No. Because you said I’m like a stepson to you and you love me very-” Gordon was cut off by a pillow to the face. He laughed and laughed, and Tommy laughed, too. Bubby grumbled. Gordon heard something about ‘shit kid’ and ‘never gonna live it down’. “I love you too, _dad_.”

Bubby visibly shuddered. “If you do that again, you’re grounded.” Tommy and Gordon started tittering again. The front door downstairs opened, then shut. They froze.

“I - I guess it’s time then, huh.” Gordon shoved the rest of his clothes in the bag, not caring what got wrinkled. The hotel would have an iron. When he finally zipped the final pocket shut, he was hit with a wave of nostalgia. 

It wasn’t him and Bubby and Tommy standing in Harold’s guest room, it was him and _B-----_ and _F-----_ and it was after the fifth heist, or the seventh, or the fourteenth, and he was packing up his stuff before the housekeepers kicked them out of their rooms. He could feel a different duffel bag in his hand as he hoisted and swung and nestled the strap into the dip in his shoulder. A different weight. Different friends to help him carry it.

“Gordon, are you alright?” Bubby asked. Tommy was already out the door and down the hall. 

Gordon didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. He nodded, hands fluttering. “Yeah, I’m - fine. I’m fine.” Took a deep breath. “I’m just…”

“I don’t care. I’m going downstairs.” Bubby turned on his heel and left, but Gordon heard his footsteps stop just outside the door. Just around the corner.

He couldn’t help the small laughs that bubbled up. Just… so like Bubby. He shook his head and smiled and adjusted the little not-a-buckle thing that made the straps longer or shorter until the bag rested comfortably against his hip.

He didn’t expect to see Dr. Coomer in the living room with Mr. Coolatta, but he shouldn’t have been surprised. There was no way Dr. Coomer was letting him leave without saying goodbye. Not again. He set his duffel down next to the laptop bag - a loaner from Black Mesa - and looked around.

He really didn’t want to leave.

He’d sat here, more than once at two o’clock in the morning with Dr. Coomer, on nights when he couldn’t sleep, talking about what he had to do, how badly he’d fucked up. Dr. Coomer - Harold - always seemed to know what he needed. A guiding light. A helping hand. Words of advice that pointed him on the right path without being condescending about how obvious it should be.

_“I… I don’t know where to start.” Gordon had signed. Harold already knew about the box, and the jobs, and B-----, but he didn’t know that Gordon had died and that was the one thing he was never going to find out._

_“Well, when a new project comes down the pike… it’s always best to start at the beginning.” Harold signed back. “Where is the beginning here?”_

So he was heading back to Dallas. The beginning. The _start_ of all this… shit.

“Hello, Gordon!” Harold said, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Are you ready?”

“Yep.” Gordon signed. “Ready to roll, ready to go.”

“It’s a little bit chilly outside - make sure you take a jacket.” Harold bustled to the coat closet and Gordon was forced back, six months back, to the last time he’d left the Coomer’s place alone. That jacket was long gone, lost in the night after Heist Six - the first time they’d had to run from the cops. Harold knew that. He came back to the living room with a different jacket, bulkier, with buckles and straps and pockets all up and down the front. It looked like the Kevlar jacket he’d worn through June and July, in Alabama and Louisiana. 

Huh. It was the same brand.

“You, uh, you really were a fan, weren’t you?” Gordon asked, forgetting about their audience for a second. He turned the jacket in his hands. It was thinner than the one he’d had before. It probably couldn’t take a bullet, but it’d take a beating. “This thing is nice, man, where did you-”

“Ah, Gordon!” Harold said something under his breath that nobody could really hear before he patted Gordon on the arm. “Go ahead and put it on, see how it fits, hm? And do remember to call me when you get there, alright?”

“I mean-” Gordon looked at G-Man, standing by the door with Tommy. “It’s not like it’s actually gonna be an eight-hour car ride, man.”

“Still.” Harold said, looking up at him with twinkling eyes. Gordon just couldn’t say no.

“Of course, Dr. Coomer.” He pulled the jacket on, running his hands down the front. Definitely thinner - but it fit like a glove, sitting on his frame perfectly. He wondered if he had time to run to a mirror -

Harold punched him in the stomach.

Yeah, he was _definitely_ thankful for the Kevlar. He fell to the ground, surprised, but not even winded by the blow.

“What was that for, Harold?” Bubby asked, stepping over Gordon.

“Mister - Mr. Freeman!”

“... This is a really nice jacket.” Gordon laughed. “Can I get a hand?”

“I - I thought he punched right through you, Mr. Freeman!” Tommy pulled Gordon up - again, like he’d done -

“Now, Gordon, I’m sure you remember the house rules!” Harold said, his fists still at the ready.

“Rule number one: Don’t leave your dirty socks in the bathroom?” Gordon quoted.

“Rule number two: Take all dirty dishes to the sink and rinse them?” Bubby asked.

“Rule number three: No radioactive materials allowed on the second floor?” Tommy queried.

“No, rule number sixteen: Don’t call me Doctor outside of work!” Harold said with a grin.

“Good rule.” Gordon mumbled, rubbing his stomach again. He probably wouldn’t even have a bruise. “You took it easy on me, didn’t you?” 

“I once punched a man’s head clean off, Gordon. Would you like a demonstration?” 

“I… I never want to see that.” Gordon signed with a grimace.

“I remember that!” Bubby snapped his fingers.

“Sorry for calling you Doctor Coomer, Harold.” Gordon tried to get them back on track, reaching out to pull him into a hug. 

“Dad?”

“Harry?”

“Okay, that’s enough of… That.” Bubby gestured at the two with his hands. “I thought you had to get going or something.”

“Yeah… I should probably head out.” Gordon fidgeted with the jacket sleeves. They had little drawstrings to make them longer and shorter, or cinch them at the wrist. Cool. “I’ll, uh, call you when I get checked in, okay?”

“Of course, Gordon.” Harold pulled him in for another hug, and Gordon let his chin rest in the fluffy white crown. Tommy latched onto him, then Bubby’s arm fell across his shoulders.

He didn’t want to leave. It’d been two weeks, and this was the most peace he’d felt since… Well.

“I should get going.” He gently patted Harold’s shoulder and started to pull away.

“Yes, we should be… On… our way.” G-Man’s voice floated over the group. Gordon untangled himself and grabbed his two bags - laptop and duffel. He balanced them awkwardly on one shoulder, one bag resting on the other.

“Buh - Bye, Mr. Freeman!”

“You better call.”

“I will, Bubby. Bye, Tommy.” Gordon waved. “L-Love you, Harold.” He walked over to Mr. Coolatta and took one last glance at Harold’s living room. He stuck out his hand.

“... Are you… Quite ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Gordon signed. He pulled his ponytail out of his jacket and shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Of course.” G-Man gripped his hand.

It felt like he was falling, falling for ages, falling for miles and decades and sinking - sinking into an abyss. It was over in an instant. The sudden black was replaced with clean white tiles and fluorescent lights almost before his brain could comprehend what had been happening.

He expected the sickness this time. He’d had a heavy breakfast the day of the heist - he made sure not to make that mistake again. He’d skipped lunch. Nothing to throw up. He was queasy, but it was manageable. He let go of Mr. Coolatta’s hand and burped. 

“Hm. Very good, Dr. Freeman. Or… should I say, Detective Esposito.” Mr. Coolatta held out a small box, and Gordon took it. Inside, just like he’d been told, was his new identity. Detective Gabriel Esposito, age 30, reports to Mr. James Lynch. He’d been hired by the feds a few years ago after ending a string of robberies in whatever state they’d decided on. Save a dozen hostages, find the loot, put the bad guy behind bars, get a key to the city… Normal cop-hero backstory.

In reality, James Lynch was a government goon that worked for Mr. Coolatta. He probably didn't even have ties to the FBI or CIA or whatever agency Gordon was supposed to be working for. Gordon didn’t need to know all the details - it was easier to bullshit when you didn’t know the truth, he’d found. He just knew that G-Man was pulling strings in the background so Gordon could be a good little field researcher for him.

“Cool.” He signed. He pulled out his badge - as worthless as any other - and his new ID and credit cards. They were all issued in his new fake name. He’d spent a few hours practicing his new signature. It wasn’t a fake identity that could be tied back to any of his other fake identities. He’d made sure of that. “I’m gonna go -” He paused to cover his mouth, then turned, looking for a trash can - looks like skipping lunch didn’t help him out after all.

While he took care of himself, G-Man stood by awkwardly. Gordon rinsed his mouth out with water from the bathroom sink and spat. 

“Cool.” He signed again. “I’m gonna go check in.” G-Man followed him, because _of course_ he did. At least he was quiet - it wasn’t like trying to check in with B- 

A few written notes between him and the clerk later, and he was riding an elevator up to his room. With G-Man. Of course.

Why did he think he’d be free of him once he got checked in? Foolish. There was no reason G-Man would leave yet. He probably had to scope the place out for like, enemy spies or something. Gordon snorted at the thought. He wasn’t important enough for that - he was just some guy who’d been fired, then murdered, and brought back to life. You know. Just some guy.

He tossed his bags on the bed and the jacket on the back of the desk chair. It was a nice room - big. Big windows, looking out over some alleyway; there was a parking garage across the way. That's good to know. Lots of Eastern light. One big bed. He wondered how he’d sleep tonight, in a hotel room for the first time in weeks.

“I… have one more thing, to, ah, give you.” G-Man said. When Gordon turned around, he was holding a different box. It was bigger than the last one - like a shoebox. “Seeing as we are, at the… _scene_ of the _crime_ , as it were. My associates thought… you might like a _reminder_ … of the other part of your… amended. Contract.”

“What is it?” Gordon asked. 

“These were found… on the day, of the heist, Dr. Freeman. We believe they belonged to the Stong Brothers. Below them, you’ll find tools to, help you, during the course of your job.”

“What? Like their guns or something?” Gordon asked. He put the box on the desk and opened- “What the hell is that about? Fucking - Warn -” Gordon shoved the lid back on. He was glad he’d already been sick once.

“I’m very sorry.” Apologies were one of the few things G-Man didn’t hesitate over. If he fucked up, he tended to apologize as soon as it was obvious. Tommy was the same way. “I… Did not think…”

“Damn straight you didn’t think!” Gordon coughed. “Fuck.”

“I… I can return it, to my… underling. I’m sure they’ll hold onto -”

“No, no. I can… use it.” Gordon gestured vaguely at the desk. “I can use it. I’ve got plans for it.”

“... If you are certain.”

“Yeah. Now that I know what’s in there…” Gordon looked at the box. “What’s underneath?”

“The… knock-out stick, from Black Mesa. It’s rather like… an electrified billy, club. It will, within moments, render the target... unconscious. The Stong brothers are, familiar, with them.” G-Man said cryptically. “I also included two sets of the… Anti-Ability Bracers and Necks. So that…”

“Yeah. I get it.” Gordon said. He nodded again. “Is there anything else you need, or can I get back to researching your box again?”

“... You do remember… the _amended_ terms of your contract?”

“Yeah.” Gordon nodded.

“Good.” Any facsimile of _concern_ had left G-Man’s voice as he spoke. “It is imperative -”

“I know, I know.” Gordon waved him off. “If I find out any information, you’ll be the first one to know.”

G-Man’s eyes narrowed before he nodded one last time. “Then I shall bid you… adieu.”

“Bye.” Gordon waved. G-Man disappeared, and Gordon was finally alone. Alone in Dallas.

Researching The Box’s movements for the past two weeks had been hard, but Harold was right. He had to start at the beginning, and that meant Dallas. That meant he was set up in a hotel room in Dallas, about a block away from the bank he’d robbed less than a month ago, the bank he’d _died_ in, posing as a federal investigator. He’d done crazier things in his life, but he couldn’t remember most of them. He thanked the trauma for that.

He turned back to the box, now that he knew what was inside of it. He pulled his jacket back on - he wasn’t going to stand around and do nothing, he had plans. It had been hard as hell not to think about those plans while G-Man was there, but he was gone now. Gordon could be alone with his thoughts. 

He lifted the lid. Two pairs of soulless eyes stared at him. He could almost feel the contempt and hatred rolling off of them; maybe that was just how _he_ felt, though. For all he knew, it had just been business. Wouldn't that be the kicker? It wasn't even active anger or hate that had led to his demise. Just... Business. He reached for the one on the right.

His fingers traced the green ripples that streamed across the mask. Green as radioactive sludge from the day of The Incident. He held it so gingerly, so lightly, it was like it was a feather in his grasp. He stepped over to the bed, sitting down and staring at the mask.

He should get going. The U-Stor office was only open til 6, and it was almost 4:30. Still…

“Why did you do it? Why didn’t you stop him?” Gordon asked, speaking out loud. He ran a finger down the green river, radioactive green. Was this the one that Benrey had painted with glow-in-the-dark paint? He hoped it was. He felt the groove under the paint, where Benrey had taken a hit to the temple with a baton and repaired the mask instead of throwing it away. He’d barely had a bruise by the time they got out of the getaway car. “Did - was I just a means to an end for you? An extra? The fall guy in the movie?” Gordon felt the anger and something else clawing up his throat, like bile. He swallowed thickly. _Of course he was-_

“It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” Gordon flipped the mask over and looked at the inside. Benrey’s blood. “I’m never going to see you again anyway. You're long gone. Out there, playing video games on some insane rig.”

Gordon stood up and put the mask back in the box, pulling out the little bracelets inside. He’d heard all about them from Tommy - they were like the smaller, personal versions of the No-Fly Zone, designed for… the experiments in Black Mesa. He messed with the collar - it opened and closed easily on his neck. How did it stay in place once it was put on? It just opened right back up and he could pull it off no problem. Huh. He'd keep messing with it. If there was one thing he needed, it was a different unanswerable question to focus on. He put the bracelets in his pocket. They… tapped something?

A thin, tiny flip phone. It was bright green. Oh, shit, Harold-

His storage unit could wait a minute. (That’s a tip he should share with G-Man - no need for security deposit boxes. Just rent a U-Stor. Nobody fucking robs U-Stor.) He flipped it open, grinning ear to ear when he saw that it already had Harold’s phone number saved, as well as Bubby’s and Tommy’s - under code names, of course. 

“Ah, hello, Gordon! I see you have found my ‘burner phone’!” Harold's voice was tinny and crackly, like they were using cell phones from the early 2000's. Honestly, Harold probably was.

“Hey, Harold.” Gordon said. It still felt so weird to call him Harold instead of Dr. Coomer. He’d get used to it eventually. “What’s up?”

“I assumed you would like a way to communicate that is not tracked by Mr. Coolatta. I don’t trust his colleagues. I am sorry that I could not purchase a phone with ‘video call’ properties.”

“It’s okay. Just a quick conversation.” Gordon said. He still hated his voice, but this? This was okay, almost. The sound quality on this phone was atrocious. He probably didn't sound anything like himself anyway. “Actually, you just gave me a great idea…”

-

Benrey landed in a dark alleyway, falling - falling, he kept falling. He half-landed on a dumpster, cracking an exposed rib against the metal. He rolled over the edge and away from it, thankfully, though his bag wasn’t so lucky. Cardboard boxes crumbled under his body when he landed again. The dumpster was almost familiar - No. It _was_ familiar.

Dallas. This was the alleyway he and Forzen had dropped down into - that was the dumpster Forzen had landed in. That was the door they’d come out of, from the shitty little closet they’d used to get ready. Just over there was… The bank.

He’d been thinking of Gordon so damn hard that he’d teleported back to the last place he saw him. A half-glimpse over his shoulder as he stepped off the roof and fell, fell down into the alleyway, fell beside a heap of trash - and the dumpster was there, too. Ha.

Looking back, he finally realized why Forzen had been so pissed. He thought Gordon was an imposter. He thought - he honestly thought Gordon was gonna rat them out and take them back to Black Mesa. That was a fucking joke and a half. Benrey looked up into the sky. Too much light pollution. Nothing like the desert.

No wishes tonight.

He was lucky he’d landed in the alleyway. He could have landed in the dumpster, or on the roof, or halfway between the two. Hell, he could have ended up halfway through a wall, or in the bank, his chest cracked open like a cadaver, dripping blood and regret all over their linoleum floor.

He laughed at the thought, dark and low. Lucky? Lucky isn’t betrayed by their brother. Lucky isn’t alone in an alleyway because they’d ended up killing both of their best friends, however indirectly. He wasn’t lucky. He was cursed.

His chest felt funny, and it wasn’t just the cracked rib from the fall. He looked down and spat up the red duffel bag. The parts that had been in his stomach had started to fade. It was a weird mix of orange and red at this point.

God, he hated orange.

He hated green more, though.

He was surprised that both duffel bags had come with him. As surprised as he could be with the anger still working through him. He pulled Gordon’s a little closer. His chest felt… empty without it. Maybe it’s because a part of him was missing.

That’s what you get for getting a tentacle cut off, dumbass. His inner Gordon said. Signed. He almost chuckled. It’s what Gordon would sound - look - like, too, with his hands and eyebrows and the little quirk of his lips. For some reason, he always heard Gordon's voice in his head before he saw the hands flashing, even if Gordon's hands were his favorite hands. They took anything given to them and made it better. Just look at Benrey.

He unzipped the bag slowly, focusing on his chest and ribs, pulling himself together. Literally. It didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would, losing a huge chunk of his mass like that. He’d get it back over the next few days, depending on how much he ate. He hoped he’d grabbed the bag with the cash.

He hadn’t opened Gordon’s bag before, not after he shoved all Gordon’s stuff into it. His fingers dusted over the motorcycle helmet Gordon had worn to a few heists. Would it have kept him safe if he’d been wearing it that day? His fingers traced the geometric patterns on the orange helmet before moving to dig underneath. Orange like the HEV suit. Maybe that was why Gordon had chosen it.

Didn’t matter now. He dug further, looking for the clothes piled at the bottom, underneath all the other little things Gordon had carried with him.

Laptop. Mouse. Charging cable. Probably busted; Benrey hadn’t been the most gentle. At least the canvas had protected the contents from whatever his stomach acid could do. Nothing was damaged or discolored like the outside, thank goodness. He finally pulled a nerdy t-shirt he didn’t understand to the top.

His chest felt like it was zipping closed. The seam would be healed in a day, gone in less than two. He wiped up his mess with his tattered work shirt and tossed it over his head, into the dumpster. Then he slid on Gordon’s shirt.

God, it was so soft. He pulled himself up to his feet and waited for the world to stop spinning, holding on to the dumpster. This pile of trash was still more supportive than the last one had been. Ha. Another joke. At this rate, he’d be back to normal in no time. He pulled the other bag out of the dumpster. He’d have to learn to carry less; he didn’t have anybody else to help him shoulder the load.

He put Gordon’s helmet back in the red duffel bag and hoisted them both up, crossing his torso. His chest felt hollow. His stomach was empty. Lost in a city he’d barely seen, with only his guilty conscience to guide him. What would Gordon do?

Just thinking about Gordon here brought back the desperation from the bank, the panic, the confusion, the despondency that had tinged his life for the past two weeks. There hadn’t been any news - the world had moved on without a whisper about his best friend, not even a word about the death of Dr. Gordon Freeman, a genius with too little common sense and too much trust put in the wrong people. He owed it to Gordon to find out the truth beyond what Forzen claimed.

He should go… say goodbye, first. After all, that’s what you’re supposed to do when somebody you love dies.

Hell of a time for him to figure that out, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8! Thank you SO SO SO much for the response to last chapter. I think I legitimately cried tears of joy because of the comments I got - all the comments and kudos really do keep me going. I hope the next few chapters keep the hype up, a little bit. I think you all know what's coming... because that's the end of "Part One". 
> 
> I'm always open to constructive criticism, so please - if you notice any glaring errors or if you just want to scream at me, please do so! I'll see you guys in like, three weeks. Happy Holidays!
> 
> (In an obvious show of comment-baiting, I'd love to see what code names people would use for Coomer, Bubby, and Tommy in Gordon's new cell phone.)


	9. Junesong Provision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Good morning, sunshine - Awake when the sun hits the sky. Look up at the sounds that surround The day you died._

It’s his first night out of the Coomers’; of _course_ he’s gonna dose himself. He debates between alcohol or cough syrup. He ends up going with his old standby. No need to deal with a hangover tomorrow if he can avoid it.

He’s expecting bodies. Dead scientists, dead aliens... Bloody messes he’d sidestepped in hallways that went on too long, twisting back on themselves like a mind melting maze, no escape, no respite in the constant forward march. He’s looking forward to aliens, even. Time has eroded the sharp edges and claws. He’s expecting that day to play through his head again just like it did on the road. He can deal with this, with the sights and sounds of that day, knowing that sleep is coming for him.

He’s not expecting blue.

He’s not expecting the fear of coming around corners and seeing still bodies wearing blue, splayed on the floor - face down - unrecognizable. Every time he goes around a corner and sees another guard on the ground, his heart climbs to his throat and stays there, choking him. He can feel the stale underground air in his lungs trying to escape. He doesn’t even have Tommy with him this time. He’s entirely alone.

God, this is some pathological fuckery he hadn’t thought about for months. After all, why did he have to worry about Benrey when Benrey was right there with him, if not in the same room then right next door? The terror of walking through Black Mesa, almost alone, almost defenseless, just him and Tommy while Benrey went ahead, clearing out hallways so they could follow safely. The isolation. It was a type of terror that hadn’t crossed his mind for…

Well. How long had he been robbing banks, again?

He knew it was the city. The bank. The cops. The - the _everything_ about this fucked up situation that was making him miss Benrey. Hell, he’d done a good enough job the past few weeks pushing Benrey to the back of his mind. He kept the guard out of his thoughts, and when he _was_ in his head, when he managed to slip past the barriers - heh, past the _guards_ that Gordon had, Gordon was able to avoid actually thinking about him. He’d blur out the face and the name and focus on anything but the blue uniform, blue eyes, blue sweet voice. He can’t do that now. Not when there’s cough syrup - blue night-time mixture - in his system.

Fucking… blame him for wanting to feel secure, he guesses. Benrey might have been a shit guard any other day, but he’d done his best to keep Gordon and Tommy safe til they got separated. This whole situation had him on edge, and his subconscious had latched onto Benrey as a symbol of security. Literally. Figuratively. Gordon didn’t know, and he didn’t care. He tries to shut his brain off. _Go to sleep_. 

He doesn’t even notice the taste anymore. He could chug bottles of this stuff. A second dose goes down smooth when his brain is taking too long to shut down. It’s like computers in the 90s used to be - you’d shut down the computer, and then you’d have to physically cut the electricity by pushing a switch. Time to push that switch, enact part two of a process that shouldn’t be two-step.

He almost thinks he takes too much. Hallucinations and dark shadows crawl along the edge of his vision and he’s afraid he's going to be in for night terrors, paralysis, stomach cramps, vomiting - but then he feels his fatigue catch up with him, almost too late, and his eyes slide closed.

Benrey is there, his hand outstretched.

Gordon reaches up - when did he fall? His hand slides into Benrey’s and it fits easily, so perfectly, the HEV suit gloves contrasting with Benrey’s pale white hands.

Benrey pulls him up, and the vertigo makes Gordon feel like he’s falling into the void.

 _Don’t wake up_ … something says. He’s not sure what it is, his subconscious or conscious or if he’s just reluctant to start another day, but he listens. He lets himself sink into the covers and the darkness and the mattress and the void, hand wrapped around Benrey’s mask - tucked into Benrey’s hand. 

He doesn’t remember anything when he wakes up. That’s what the cough syrup is for, after all.

-

Blue walls, blue carpeting. They’d replaced a lot in the past two weeks. The smell of glue was pretty strong still; he wondered if the workers complained. He knows he would - he’d complain and say stupid shit, and Gordon - of course Gordon was there, he was always there. He’d been there for… how many years had they known each other? Three? Four? Anyway, Gordon would laugh his silly little laugh, and his nose would scrunch up just… just like that, and he’d sniff the air, then say something about how the only thing that smells is Benrey.

Oof. Can’t even be nice to me in my fantasies, huh, Freeman? That how you want to be? Benrey lays his head against the wall and smirks. It’s the truth, though. Gordon had never been interested. Now, Benrey would never have the chance to convince him.

“I’m sorry.” He says. It’s the first thing he’s said since he got here. The silence doesn’t feel broken, though. It’s not like that day, when cracks and gunshots broke the terrified silence. This silence is different. It’s something he can live with.

This silence is like watching Gordon fall asleep. It’s like… watching him wake up. The air conditioner kicks on and it’s like his little humming sighs as he wakes up to the light coming in through the windows because Benrey and Gordon both like watching sunrises. This silence is like being alone, but with somebody else. 

He’s just missing the other person.

The security camera blinks in the corner. He could have turned it off if he wanted to but he wanted them to see this - to see _him_. To acknowledge that somebody was here. Somebody had been here. Somebody had died here.

There still wasn’t a single word about Gordon Freeman’s death. Just a few scattered articles about a robbery where the bad guys got away. Except they didn’t - one of them was left behind.

Benrey promised he’d never leave Gordon behind again. He even says it out loud. “I’m never gonna leave you behind again.” He fidgets. It’s probably the longest he’s ever sat still, ever. “I promise.”

The dawn was starting to creep in. He should probably get going before the managers or whoever runs banks comes to open up for the day. He unfolds from where he was sitting on the floor, stretching. Absently scratches his stomach. He looks up into the new security camera - there’s one behind him and one in front of him, where before there was just the one behind him, looking into the safe. Now they were focused on people who come into the hallway, too, not just the people leaving it.

Wouldn’t do them any good unless it could see through the visor on the motorcycle helmet. Benrey gives it a little wave as he walks past it, through the door to the managers’ office and out the side wall.

… Gordon would have laughed.

-

The good thing about working for the fake federal government is that the locals do most of the work for you. They’ve got a vested interest in tracking down the bank robbers; it makes them look bad when… How much was it? Over 300K was stolen? Gone, with no trace of where it went. None of the bills had resurfaced yet - none of the valuables had been identified or pawned or sold anywhere, and that’s not even counting the stuff that was in the box. Heck, Gordon’s not sure what was even _in_ the box, but apparently one of the cops under him had to speak to the insurance agency and it had been insured for well over a hundred thousand dollars. Gordon’s never heard of a parent insuring their kids' baby pictures, let alone for that much. Maybe he just had shit parents. 

Speaking of the heist… He’s thankful that he doesn’t talk. Once he’d gotten off the phone with the Coomers’, he’d shut his mouth and not opened it except for coffee. Otherwise, he’s not sure he’d be able to keep quiet. Every time they refer to Benrey or Forzen as “Jason” or “Scarecrow” he’s about to lose it. 

There’s a certain kind of sadness that comes with losing a friendship. He’s probably going through that right now - not that he wants to, but Benrey was a big part of his life. They’d robbed banks together! He’d saved Gordon’s life before! They’d… Watched YouTube videos, and played Spyro: The Dragon and Heavenly Sword and made random runs to the nearest Dairy Queen when they had slow days at work and Gordon was reasonably sure they wouldn’t get in trouble for leaving the facility. Benrey had been his friend, even before the Incident. Now, to face the reality that he was gone…

It made moments like this a little bittersweet, because he’s standing in the back of a meeting room while two cops are shooting the shit about “Mommy’s Boy” and “Boogeyman”, and he’ll never be able to tell Benrey about it. He has to hide his smile behind his coffee.

It’s when one of the officers makes a particular jab about mommy issues - “See, this is the difference between daddy issues and mommy issues. Daddy issues make you a slut - Mommy issues make you a bank robbin’ son of a bitch.” 

_Beeeeeeeeep-_

“If you have mommy issues, it’s already pretty obvious that you’re the son of a bitch.”

The cops are too busy laughing at lines that aren’t even that clever by normal standards to notice Gordon choking on his coffee. He grips the cup too hard and the lid pops off, making coffee slosh all over the floor, but thankfully none gets on his new suit. 

Where could it have come from?

That… That sound. He hears it again, fainter, but still there, like a dim and dismal ship horn off a foggy coast.

“You okay there, fed?” One of the officers asks. Gordon nods his head, coffee cup still held away from his chest like it would jump out and spill on him. He holds up a finger and uses gestures to ask for paper towels; apparently, these cops are just as dirty as their mouths because they have paper towels ready. Or he’d just been that distracted.

He takes the roll with one hand and puts his coffee to the side, getting on his knees to clean up his mess. It was only fair. He looks up and around while he does it, though. The cops are back to their conversation, shooting the shit while some people in a different room actually work. Gordon looks around, trying to see if Benrey had like, phased through the walls or some shit and come out behind him, but there wasn’t anything. Just an AC vent and another whiteboard that didn’t have anything written on it.

He was just overreacting. He was fine. It was just his brain playing tricks on him, trying to scare him when he knew he should be more vigilant. He was letting his guard down around these cops. The last time he’d let his guard down, he’d been…

He sighed and grabbed his cup. He needed to get a new one. He shook his head; he hadn’t heard Sweet Voice like that, that _deep_ since… Since the third heist, if he was remembering right. If it was meant to scare him, his brain would have to pick a different tone. _Pomegranate, I regret it_ wasn’t scary.

-

“House seems so empty without him.” 

Gordon had been gone for two days. It was a different kind of quiet than what had filled the house before. The past had been full of anxious waiting, wondering when their friend would come back. If he would come back. Now, those fears and anxieties were gone - leaving behind an almost comfortable longing for a missing piece.

“I thought you’d be happy he’s gone. You complained every day he was here about the extra work…”

“I just said it was quiet!” Bubby grumbled. “... You know who I haven’t thought of since March?”

“Who?” Coomer finally looked up from his magazine.

“Benrey. I wonder what he’s up to?”

“... You know?” Coomer put the magazine down and sat up fully on the couch. “I wonder, too.”

-

So far, Gordon’s found like… fifty different crimes that have slid under the noses of the cops investigating the robbery. 

Keep in mind, he’s not even a _cop_. He’d just been raised by one.

It does help him out quite a bit though; he’s had a chance to clean out his U-Stor unit and he’d found a lot more bags full of cash than he thought he had. He really couldn’t remember which ones were dirty money or not, so he should probably have all of them... Laundered. And where better to do that then the money laundering front you found while investigating your old partners in crime?

That’s how he finds himself in a Dallas laundromat less than a block from the bank he’d died in, duffel bag of cash on his hip and sunglasses pushed up, holding his hair back from his face, wearing the jacket Coomer had given him instead of his Big Boy Detective outfit. He goes straight to the back desk, avoiding the rows of washers and dryers. “I need to speak to the owner” is written on the note he slides across the desk. He’d learned the first few times to accompany notes with sign language, otherwise people think you’re robbing them. Which, while funny, is not what was happening here. He signs a quick hello and gestures at the note.

“Can I help you?” the woman behind the desk asks, looking at him incredulously. He pokes his note and signs again. “Okay.” She finally stands up and reads the note. “What does this mean?”

“It means that I need to speak to the owner.” Gordon wrote out on a new slip and slid it over. He pulled the duffel bag up and set it on the counter, patting it with one hand. The woman looked at that, then at him, then went back to the office. Good. 

He didn’t have to wait long. A tall, older man - with a gun obviously holstered under his left arm, straps half hidden by his jacket - came to the counter, holding the notepad. He slapped it on the counter. Gordon adjusted his glasses.

“What do you want?” Gordon couldn’t place the accent.

“I need something cleaned.” Gordon wrote. He pulled his bag over, unzipping the top a bit to show how full to bursting it was with cash. He slid it over, and the man’s eyebrows rose. “I need this… taken care of. And I need any information you have in relation to the bank robbery a few weeks ago. Any contacts, anybody who might know something.” Gordon’s handwriting got a lot less clear the quicker he wrote. “I need to get revenge.”

“Revenge is profitable.” The man said, pulling out a paperclipped stack of cash. “Very profitable.”

“How much for what I need?” Gordon wrote.

“... Thirty percent.” The man said. Gordon nodded and nudged the bag, holding his right hand out. 

“Deal.” They shook on it. One pump up, one pump down. Just like Harold had taught him.

“Good. Now get out.”

Gordon waved as he walked out, grinning at at least three cameras and the one other patron in the laundromat - a man who was absolutely not here to do laundry, no matter how interested he was in the one dryer that was going. There was even a camera on the underside lip of the counter he’d been standing at. Balls cam! He giggles.

-

“What do you mean, he’s gone for the day?” Benrey asked. Shouted. Whatever.

“The agent you’re attempting to reach has left for the day. I’ve left a message on his extension for you, but that’s all I can do…” 

“Don’t police officers have radios? Cell phones? Beepers?” Benrey’s voice was lower this time. He could be polite! He just didn’t like being stopped by stupid rules. A _crime_ had happened. He wouldn’t leave his work half done and just run off; why was this actual, professional detective doing that?

“Sir, I’m not able to give out that information.” The secretary paused when Benrey covered his mouth, trying to keep the loud tone from getting everywhere. _Red like iron rusted_ for his frustration; it was a slant rhyme, but it worked. He smeared the dark red and grey on his hoodie and took a step back from the desk. 

“It’s fine.” He muttered. He’d just have to come back later tonight, when there were less people, and look through this guy’s stuff. She’d said his name - Detective Esperanza or something. He’d find their office later tonight and look through all the shit they had. “I’ll be back later.”

He probably heard her mutter something under her breath as he walked away, but he didn’t really care. It’s not her fault she had to follow rules. He’d had plenty of people get in his face about rules he had to enforce, too.

Even Gordon - he’d forget anything that wasn’t sewn into his little Lab Boy coat pockets, and Benrey’d had to get on his ass so many times he’d eventually just started keeping his passport in his locker. Gordon should’ve just been glad it was Benrey and not one of the other guards, like Willet or Jimothy. They’d have torn him apart for forgetting it. Literally. 

There he goes, getting lost in his head again. He should see if his stuff is still where he left it on the roof. He’d tucked the bags near some AC’s to keep them hidden, just in case. He’d learned a lot about caution the past few weeks. Then he might go on a walk. 

-

Gordon’s not expecting anything interesting when he gets to the station for the morning. For one, he’d already plotted Benrey and Forzen’s course through downtown in its entirety, and he just had to figure out where the box got dropped off and go from there. For two, he hasn’t given any of these cops a reason to try to bond with him. They ignore him, he pretends to ignore them, the cycle continues. He’d heard enough about the arrogance of federal agents growing up, and he was more than willing to play the part. He’d use their expectations against them.

“Agent Esposito? You’ve got a visitor.” Somebody shouts. He looks up from his phone in confusion - who the hell could be visiting him? G-Man wasn’t supposed to check in until the end of the week, and Harold hadn’t mentioned anything when they texted last night…

“What?” He motions, the confusion clear on his face. The person who’d shouted pointed in the direction of his office. It was barely a glorified cubicle, but he appreciated having a door he could close behind him. He raised an eyebrow at them and went down the hallway to his office… He peeked through the crack…

“Tommy?” Gordon threw the door open. “Tommy! What - what are you doing here?”

Tommy didn’t bother looking away from the map on the corkboard. Gordon was going to say something more, but then he had a sudden face full of dog.

“Sunkist, stop. Stop - girl, stop!” Gordon gestured for Sunkist to stop, but if she didn’t want to, she wasn’t going to. It’s part of what made her so perfect. It had been almost seven months since she’d seen him last; she had a lot of slobber to catch up on. She jumped and pushed him against the wall, and when he knelt down to pet her better, she knocked him onto the floor. He’d never met a dog who loved people as much as Sunkist did.

“This is really impressive, Detective Esposito!” Tommy said after a minute. Gordon tried to look around the desk and see what Tommy was talking about. He still wasn’t looking at him; he was busy staring at the map and the pictures of -

Oh, fuck. Gordon didn’t think Tommy would be able to tell who was under the masks - after all, the pictures were all either six months old or incredibly blurry, zoomed in from distant cameras. Still, a new wave of guilt came crashing down on him. Benrey and Tommy had been pretty close when they all worked at Black Mesa. It was one of the reasons he’d been reluctant to say anything about the heists, before.

“How do you know my name?” He asked, trying to push himself up and out of Sunkist’s range. It wasn’t working well, and there was only so much space left in the office.

“Oh, you know. Working with Dad - uh, and talking to Dr. Coomer and Bubby.”

“Yeah, but like -” Gordon grunted when Sunkist stepped someplace that would have been painful if he’d been born male. “Are you being petty because I didn’t text you last night?”

“Me? Petty?” Tommy turned around, covering his mouth with his hand. Gordon got a glimpse of his face before Sunkist started licking him again. He was _definitely_ smirking. “Never, Mister - Detective Es-po-si-to!”

Okay, Tommy was _definitely_ being petty. Gordon laughed and pushed Sunkist a little bit, hoping Tommy would take pity on him. 

“I guess you should - uh - stand up.” Tommy offered him a hand. “Sunkist, move, girl. I hope you’ve learned your lesson -”

“My lesson about texting you regularly or else you’ll sic your dog on me?” Gordon signed once his hands were free. “Yeah, I learned it. It’s memorized.”

“That’s good. I don’t worry much but you’re still my - my friend.” 

Gordon’s eyes slid away from Tommy’s face and to the pictures on the wall. “Yeah. Friends.”

He’d just been a coward. Tommy - heck, they all deserved to know the truth about what happened to him. They deserved to know how Benrey was involved. 

There was just… something in Gordon that didn’t want them to know. He didn’t know if it was shame, like he didn’t want their pity - or if it was that he didn’t want to change their opinion of Benrey. He could blame Forzen all he wanted, but Benrey… Benrey had been his friend.

That’s why it hurt so bad.

“Listen-”

“We should go on a walk! It’s a beautiful day outside, all the fall colors on display…” Tommy interrupted him. “Besides, it’s almost time for Sunkist’s walk - she’ll be as hyper as a kid in a candy shop if she doesn’t get a walk. And you - you were planning on going for a walk today anyway, right?”

Gordon did a double take. Not just because of the interruption, but because there’d been no indication that he was about to go on a walk. He’d just gotten there, after all. But… he was going to leave. He’d just stopped by to see if anything else had happened, check his messages and memos, things like that. He looked at Tommy, who was smiling happily and patting Sunkist on her golden head.

“How did you know that?” Tommy wasn’t looking at him, but he answered readily.

“I - I figured you wouldn’t want to spend a lot of time here, Mister - uh, Detective Esposito. Plus, we need to talk about Black Mesa stuff and - and I _know_ you don’t want to do that here.”

“You are so right. Let’s get out of here.” Gordon picked up his kevlar jacket from where he’d dropped it and dusted off his jeans. Today was a field day. He certainly looked the part. 

“Is there anything else you need?” Tommy asked. Gordon shook his head; they’d pass anything important along to him when he got back. They got stopped a few times on the way out by people wanting to pet Sunkist; she didn’t go nearly as crazy for any of these new people. The Perfect Dog sure knew how to make him feel special.

“So…” Gordon paused once they were outside. Tommy smiled, encouraging him to continue. “I was originally gonna walk… Uh, take the path my old - my old. Uh.” Gordon paused. How could he refer to Benrey? “My old heist… partners took. You know, after…”

Tommy sighed. “It’s okay, you can just say their - their names, Mr. Freeman. You can - you can say it’s Benrey and Forzen. I already know.”

Gordon paused. Sunkist’s tail thwapped against the back of his knees, giving him something to focus on as his brain blue-screened. 

“You - I never - But - You - _how_ -” Gordon’s hands flew from word to word, stuttering, cutting himself off. “I never told you it was them, you shouldn’t know-”

“Shouldn’t know what, Mr. Freeman?” Tommy said. He still wasn’t meeting Gordon’s eye - hell, if not meeting his eye was just avoiding the question, then Tommy was avoiding the whole conversation, with his torso being turned away. Gordon groaned and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

“... Did you get your dad to tell you?”

“No.” Tommy sounded a little sad. No, disappointed.

“Wait. If you didn’t get your dad to tell you-” Gordon paused. He looked at Tommy again, who was _still_ not facing him. “How the hell can you understand me when you’re turned away like that?”

“Huh? What was that?” Tommy finally turned to look at him, a smirk on his face. “I wasn’t looking.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“Hm?”

“You’re… You’re really his son, aren’t you? Like - biologically?”

“Well, of course, Mr. Freeman! Or should I say, Gabriel Esposito?” Tommy giggled again. He was the only person Gordon knew who could giggle without it being creepy or suggestive. “He’s my dad, through and through!”

“... I need more coffee.” Gordon signed. “Because if you’re implying what I _think_ you’re implying-”

“What do you think I’m implying, Mr. Freeman?” Tommy asked, entirely too happy. Sunkist’s tail thumped against the back of Gordon’s knees even harder, like she’d been in on the joke. She probably had been.

“Forget coffee. I need a drink.” Gordon groaned, pushing his glasses out of the way and pressing his palms against his eyes. “You - you got the ability to _read minds_ from your fucking _dad_ -”

“You - you’re really quick on the uptake, Mr. Freeman!” Tommy said with a grin. Gordon didn’t have to see it to know it was there. “It took Bubby and Dr. Coomer a lot - a lot longer to catch on.”

Gordon paused. “How long did it take Dr. Coomer?”

“Almost a week. Bubby figured it out - he thought he figured it out a bit sooner, but he didn’t believe me until Dr. Coomer figured it out too.”

“What number am I thinking of?” Gordon asked immediately. 

“Really, Mr. Freeman?” Tommy started, but he couldn’t help laughing. “It’s - it’s a funny number, that’s for sure!”

“Yeah, but which one.” Gordon asked, completely serious. 

“... 80085.” Tommy said with a giggle.

“Holy shit.”

“To - to be fair, Mr. Freeman, that’s not a… a hard guess. There were like, five other numbers it could have been.”

“That’s - yeah, I guess you’re right.” Gordon laughed. 

“And you’re not gonna dis- you’re not gonna throw me off that easily. I’m not gonna get distracted by your red herrings.”

“... Yeah.” Gordon nodded. He’d tried to distract Tommy, but Tommy saw through his ruse. Probably helped that he could read minds. Knew what he was thinking. Gordon sighed. “I… I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay! I haven’t told anybody. I just, I just wanted to hear about what happened from… From you, if that’s okay.”

“What’s there to tell?” Gordon asked sardonically, gesturing wider than he had to. He was glad it was the middle of the morning on a Thursday - the bars and streets would be crowded tonight, but it wasn’t remotely busy now. Gordon led them to a little park the city had built over a tunnel instead of deeper into downtown; they’d stand around and let Sunkist run for a bit. He didn’t want to get any closer to the bank with Tommy, anyway. Not while he was talking about this. “I trusted the wrong people.”

“I don’t think-”

“It happened.” Gordon cut Tommy off. “I was killed in a bank by an ex-security guard and his shitty older brother. Your dad brought me back, which I’m thankful for, but-” 

“I just don’t think… It’s hard for me to believe that Benrey would do that.” Tommy said. “Are - are you sure he knew about it?”

“I… I can’t be 100% positive about anything where Forzen is concerned.” Gordon said, leaning against a tree. “Forzen kept away from us. He kept the money most of the time, he kept the contacts… Hell, the only thing I had in my phone were a few contacts we used to launder cash. That was the only thing I was ever trusted with, other than putting the plans together. Benrey and I were like… Peons to him.” Gordon shrugged. “Still. Benrey followed every word that Forzen said. Nothing the guy ever did was bad enough to make Benrey stop listening. So… I dunno.”

“Are you sure it couldn’t have been a - a guard?”

“No, they didn’t have guns.” Gordon said, then he lunged away from the tree, whirling around to face Tommy. “I wasn’t even wearing a mask! The guards didn’t know I was part of the robbery. I was supposed to go in there, get them to open up the safe - which they were doing when Forzen and Benrey came in - and Forzen was gonna ransack the safe and drag me out as a hostage.” Gordon frowned. “I - I knew I’d probably get manhandled. Didn’t expect to get shot.”

“... I see.” Tommy said. 

“I didn’t come up with this plan.” Gordon said, defending himself. “This one was mostly Forzen. He got it in his head that he wanted a hostage the day before the heist, throw the cops off - not that they’re remotely _on_ -” Gordon scoffed. “I swear, I haven’t seen this many shitty cops since I left Michigan.”

“Hm.” Tommy made a noise. Gordon paced for a second, making little gestures with his hands. “How - how are you holding up?”

“What?” Gordon stopped.

“I - I know you don’t like cops, Mr. Freeman. I’m still surprised you agreed to do… this.” 

“Well. I’m getting paid. I dunno, man. The cops are annoying but it’s not like they’re gonna recognize me and call my dad. It’s been what, eight years? Nine? Since the last time he saw me? There’s no way he’d recognize me now. And there is literally _no_ reason to contact any cops in Michigan.” Gordon shrugged again, tilting his head. “It’s what I gotta do to move on with my life, man. It’s not like your dad is gonna let me off the hook without that box.”

“Yeah. I - I guess you’re right.” Tommy and Gordon watched Sunkist play with a squirrel for a moment. The fall atmosphere was peaceful - quiet, even in the middle of this downtown park. 

“You said there was Black Mesa business you needed to do?” Gordon finally asked.

“Oh! That’s right!” Tommy’s eyes lit up. “I - uh, uh, I got assigned to control - to create your new body!”

“... My new _what?!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salutations! Happy New Year! If you're reading this fresh. If not, it's probably much later in the year. Unless you're reading this in early 2022...
> 
> Anyway, this chapter kicked my butt. Again. Let me know if there's something that worked really well or didn't work at all! I'm leaving it here and leaving it alone, for once in my writing life. Let me know if you think it's good stuff!
> 
> (Speaking of good stuff, I was looking up names - Esposito is one I stole from a popular crime drama that ended a few years ago, but I was not expecting the name to mean anything like what it does! It can be traced to words that mean "to place outside" or was used to denote orphans who were "placed outside" on church steps. Which I thought was very interesting, and an entirely unintentional choice of identity for an 'outsider'! The other name used in the chapter, Esperanza, also has a hidden meaning, though I already knew this one. It means 'Hope'.)
> 
> My job has me working a lot more right now, so updates are gonna be a bit slower, unfortunately. Hopefully, at the end of January, things will go back to normal - but I do have a few other things I've been working on. It's not all work, no play. =)


	10. No World For Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh, what did I do to deserve all of this? What did I do to deserve all of you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up! This story is my wish fulfillment. That means that the experiences of Gordon in regards to transitioning and what he wants out of his body are not going to be universal, and the way he gets those things might not work for 100% of readers. I'm sorry if any of those aspects rub anybody the wrong way.

“... A new. Body.”

“Yep!”

“Buddy, I - I dunno what to tell ya, but I’m kinda stuck with this one.” Gordon gestured at his body. It’s not like he could change it like a suit. Even with the Coomer Clones, Harold was stuck in his body - he might get the occasional flash of one of their consciousnesses, but it wasn’t a full body swap, not like what Tommy seemed to be suggesting.

“Mr. Freeman, you asked my dad for a body and - and he agreed. Are you saying that he was lying?” 

Gordon shivered at Tommy’s tone - he didn’t know Tommy could sound _threatening_. He’d never sounded like that, for as long as Gordon knew him - must be something he learned from his dad. “Nope. Not at all - not one bit.” Gordon paused. “But, like… How is that gonna work?” His inner scientist was screaming that it wasn’t possible.

“Oh! I just need some blood!” Tommy said with a grin. Gordon was gonna correct Tommy about what he meant when his brain caught up to what Tommy actually said.

“... Blood?”

“Yeah!”

“What do you need my _blood_ for?”

“To make the body, Mr. Freeman. What else would I need it for?”

“I have no idea. Honestly, I’m not sure I _want_ to - wait. Is this - is this a clone thing?”

“Kinda?” Tommy tilted his head. “Mister - Mr. Freeman, you can trust me. After all, I made Sunkist! The perfect dog! I can make a hu- a body, no - no problem!”

“... Is it weird that I actually find that really reassuring?” Gordon asked. He and Tommy grinned at each other.

“Of course not, Mr. Freeman! It’s normal to be reassured by your friends!”

“That’s not what I meant, but okay.” Gordon paused. Now that he was thinking about it… The gears in his head started to turn, creaking from weeks of disuse. “If you’re making me a new body…”

“Yes, Mr. Freeman?”

Should he ask? There’s no way to just _ask_ for something like… _that_. But Tommy knew why Gordon wanted a new body - he’d listened to Gordon rant about hormones before, he’d seen Gordon give himself shots. Heck, Tommy was the one who went to Darnold with the idea for a potion of Trans Your Gender - even if none of them could have foreseen the consequences of that action, Gordon knew that Tommy understood. 

Still. It was a hell of an awkward thing to ask a friend for. If it was a stranger - some random scientist from Black Mesa that Gordon _didn’t_ know, that Gordon _wasn’t_ such good friends with, somebody who would just judge him and move on - well. Gordon could probably deal with that. Asking for something like… _this_ … from Tommy was opening himself up to all sorts of horrible, horrible jokes… at his own expense. 

Ah, well. At least it wasn’t Bubby.

“... Can you make… Can you make me… Taller?” He still chickened out at the last minute.

“Like - like how much taller?”

“I dunno - I mean, I don’t need to be super tall, not like you and your dad.” Gordon immediately defended himself. “I just want… a few more inches?”

“Where would you like them?”

Gordon choked on air. Sunkist appeared out of nowhere, poking him in the legs with her snout - he barely kept from jumping out of his own skin as she did. He coughed into his hands, looking anywhere but Tommy. There’s no _way_ Tommy didn’t understand the implications. He was a grown ass man! “Just…” Gordon signed. “Proportionally. You know.”

“So… lengthen your limbs and spine proportionally?” Tommy clarified. Gordon nodded, still not looking at the other scientist. He could hear the smirk in Tommy’s voice, he didn’t need to see it on his face too. 

“Yeah.” Gordon nodded and signed jerkily. “I - I mean, not to tell you how to do your job or anything but, like, if you’re making me the perfect body, then I should get some say, right?”

“Of course, Mr. Freeman!” Gordon finally looked at Tommy again; there wasn’t anything on his face to imply that he’d been making fun of Gordon a second ago. Just the same smile, all innocence and rainbows and sunshine.

… _Had_ the implications flown over his head?

“I can do just about anything you could want.” Tommy continued, like they were talking about pizza toppings and not build-a-body. “I recently - I’ve recently isolated the genes for smelly feet and - uh, and strong teeth, so I’ll make sure you don’t get either of those. I’ll even make sure you don’t get the gene for - for Male Pattern Baldness!”

“Wait, what was that middle one?”

“Hm?”

“I… Nevermind.”

“I’ve also been working on isolating ticklish spots, and body hair growth, and - and I can put chromatophores in your skin!”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“But it would be really, really cool, Mr. Freeman!”

“Yeah, but it’s like - it’s not necessary!”

“Well - if, if you don’t want to have a fun, cool body, what would you want?” Tommy sounded offended, and Gordon snorted, then coughed when his breath caught in his throat. Every once in a while it would twinge with pain, when he made a noise, or coughed, or spoke -

“Can - I mean, if we’re changing things, do you think you could fix…” Gordon’s hand went to his throat. It’d be too much to ask for, to have his voice back. To sound like himself.

“It’ll be sparkling and brand new, like - like the best toy on your birthday!” Tommy’s smile was bright, but his eyes were clouded. Whenever Gordon brought up his voice Tommy would look guilty, like it was his fault the potions had burned his esophagus. It was just a consequence of untested - unregulated - science. 

Gordon put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Tommy.” He signed Tommy’s sign name. “You’re a true friend.”

“Aw, shucks, Mr. Freeman.” Tommy giggled; his smile cleared up. Gordon felt the tension bleed from his shoulders, too. 

“Do you think you could fix my eyes, too?”

“No. You look better with glasses.”

“What - Why?” Gordon pulled his arm away from Tommy’s shaking shoulders - shaking with laughter. “Why would you say that? Some friend you are! Cursing me to a life of poor eyesight just because - because you want me to wear glasses forever! You were the kid who always wanted glasses growing up, weren’t you?”

“That - that doesn’t have to do with anything!” Tommy kept laughing. “I - I just think your face looks better with glasses!”

“You’d like _Darnold_ better with glasses too, wouldn’t you?” Gordon teased, protecting his wounded pride. Tommy frowned.

“No. He - he wouldn’t look good at all in reading glasses.” Tommy looked serious, like this was a very big issue he was considering for the first time. “No - def-definitely not. In fact, I’m going to have to make sure he never needs glasses.”

“I wasn’t being serious. I was just teasing you.” Gordon gestured. “Because, you know, you two have been dancing around each other for like… years now.”

“Mr. Freeman, I just -” Tommy sighed. As soon as he did, Sunkist was by his side, nuzzling her snout into his hand. Dr. Coomer had said something about Sunkist being a fully trained service animal - she’d probably been a big help for Tommy after The Incident. “It’s… It’s gotten a bit more complicated since… Well. Since I found out who my other dad was.”

“... Huh? Oh, yeah. Wait.” Gordon smacked his forehead. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think - how did Darnold react to that?”

“He - he said he didn’t care, but I… I do. It’s tough. It was hard enough just being weird before, but now that I’ve got _powers_ and my dad is trying to teach me how to use them… It’s a lot.”

“A lot of time? Or just… a lot, emotionally?”

“Both.” Tommy patted Sunkist on the head on the head before he stood up straight. “I - You don’t need to worry about me, Mr. Freeman. I’ll be - I’ll be fine. I’m a lot older than you! Did - did you have any other requests?”

It honestly felt kinda shitty. He’d been so distracted the past few weeks… and he knew his friends understood, but he didn’t want them to push their feelings aside for his well being. He’d be fine - he’d just keep pushing his trauma down, and ignoring his paranoia, and eventually, he’d be okay. It’s always worked before! 

So Gordon reached out and pulled Tommy into a hug. Tommy hugged him back, patting his back a few times - like he was a dog. Speaking of dogs, Sunkist leaned against their legs until they parted. She even gave a soft little _boof_ when he reached down to pat her on the head.

“Thanks, Mr. Freeman.”

“Anytime, Tommy. You know I care about you, right?”

“I - I care about you, too!” Tommy suddenly got a mischievous glint in his eye. “Which is why I won’t tell Harold or - or Bubby about how you want a big-” Gordon slapped his hand over Tommy’s mouth. He’d somehow forgotten that _Oh yeah, Tommy could READ MINDS._

“Thank you _so much_!” Gordon said, sarcastically. He could feel Tommy’s grin under his hand, and despite the blush on his face, he smiled back.

-

“Look at this, Bubby!” Harold charged into the lab, his coat fluttering behind him like a cape. He always left the bottom half unbuttoned _just_ for that reason - it made him feel dastardly. “Gordon messaged me!”

“Give me just a second -” Bubby carefully added a few drops of whatever was in the pipette to the beaker on the table; it turned bright red before paling to a dull yellow. “Okay, show me.”

Harold glided across the floor, smooching Bubby on the cheek before he held out his phone. In the background, one of the lab techs - a recent hire who hadn’t been at the birthday party - dropped something. One of the other lab techs - who _had_ been at the party - quietly said something about _I fucking told you, man!_ before going to clean up whatever had been broken. Harold just giggled at the blush on Bubby’s face - it was too delightful to not enjoy.

Just like the picture on the phone. It was Tommy and Gordon in a soda store somewhere, a selfie taken on Tommy’s phone. They were both smiling and happy - it warmed Harold’s chest to know that Gordon was doing so well. 

“I was going to message him tonight about Security Officer Bipple.” Harold said when Bubby gave back his phone. “I wonder if he knows what happened to him…”

“I, uh.” Bubby paused, looking down at his experiment. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Why not?” Harold asked. “I already told you that they were -”

“I know, but…” Bubby sighed and shook his head. “I just think it should wait until he’s a bit more - until he’s closer to done with this job. You can press him for information about his old - his old partners… Later.” Bubby shook his head. 

The other night, Harold had revealed that it wasn’t just Gordon on the crime circuit - Benrey had been traveling with him, along with some third that he didn’t know. Benrey had been robbing banks with Gordon. And Gordon had died in a bank. Benrey had failed Gordon, maybe even betrayed him, even if he wasn’t the one to fire the gun.

Bubby might have told Harold that Gordon was back, but he wasn’t about to tell Harold this. If Harold found out that Benrey had any hand in Gordon’s death, no matter how temporary that death was, he’d tear apart Texas to find him. Bubby would at least wait until Gordon was here to stop Harold from doing that. If he could.

“If… If you’re sure.” Harold looked back at his phone just as it pinged in his hand. “Oh! Another ‘photo message’!” At least Harold was easily distracted.

-

It was like a sleepover, but during the day. And also in a hotel room instead of his high school bedroom. And also, he’d just donated three vials of blood to one of his friends so he could have a new body made for him to…

“Hey, how is this whole ‘new body’ thing gonna work?” 

“Just trust me, Mr. Freeman.” Gordon looked up from where he was lounging in the easy chair. Tommy was at the desk, poking through boxes of things from his storage unit - some of it was just stuff he’d had since Black Mesa, but some if it was from the auction, or even random heists. Gordon had even found the laminator. Good times! “My - my dad brought you back to life, after all! I’m sure he’s - he’s got some way to… Mr. Freeman, what is this?”

“Oh, that? That’s -” Gordon paused and squinted. “What _is_ that?”

“I - I don’t know. I just found it over here.” Gordon tried to see what Tommy was holding up. He’d taken off his glasses at some point to try to convince Tommy to fix his eyes - Tommy obstinately _didn’t_ look at Gordon, like he was a gorgon or something. Gordon put his glasses on and blinked.

“That’s…” It was his employment contract. Gordon must have left it sitting out. Tommy’s eyes flickered over the writing on the page; everything that was expected of Gordon in black and white. There was one paragraph, on the third page, that he’d scratched out with blue ink. Gordon had refused to sign unless it was removed. “That’s just paperwork between me and G-Man. Don’t worry about it.”

“Why does he want you to…” Tommy’s eyes widened. “Oh. I think - I think I know why that box - why that box was taken, Mr. Freeman!”

“What? Why?” Gordon pulled the easy chair over, ignoring the boxes that fell because they’d been leaning against the chair.

“That - My dad, my other dad - Doctor, uh, Connelly… He was working on clones before he died.” Tommy held up the paperwork. “He - my dad - uh, my first dad - My science dad, not my-”

“I get it, Tommy.” Gordon tried not to look exasperated.

“He - anyway, he was the first one at Black Mesa to figure out how to - to make viable clones. It’s what turned into the technology that he - he used to make me.” 

“Wait - you’re a test tube baby? But you have a belly button!”

“Yeah, apparently that’s one of the tricky things.” Tommy said absentmindedly. He was scanning the next page.

“Okay, let me get this straight.” Gordon took a deep breath, despite speaking with his hands and not his mouth. He supposed it gave him a second to think. His hands hovered in front of him in anticipation of what he was about to sign. “Your dad - somehow - got blood from G-Man and used that blood to make a test tube baby. You are that test tube baby. Then, like 30 years ago, you get taken in by foster care -”

“Actually, my dad was murdered.”

“... Oh.”

“Yeah. It - it wasn’t something… We didn’t know for the longest time what happened to him. He was poisoned by - by Dr. Straight.”

“Dr. Straight? The clone program Dr. Straight?”

“Yeah.”

“... The homophobic bastard who made Dr. Coomer’s life hell?”

“That’s the one!”

“So - wait, if you know he’s the one who killed your dad-” Gordon was gonna ruin that man’s life.

“Oh, he’s already dead, don’t worry about it!” Tommy said with a smile. It wasn’t even a dark smile. It was his normal sunshiny smile. 

“I’m kinda worried, though!” Gordon wasn’t gonna suggest _murder!_ Maybe blackmail, or extortion, but not straight up _murder_. There were lines he wouldn’t cross, even after the past six months. “How did-”

“He - Dr. Straight tried blackmailing my dad when he found out about… Me.” Tommy said. The smile was gone. “My - uh, my dad didn’t react to the threat… well.”

Okay. Deep breath.

“Okay. So your first dad - science dad - got G-Man’s blood and used it to make a baby, which was you, he gets _murdered_ \- my condolences, by the way - and the son of a bitch who murdered him tries to blackmail your _other_ dad because he found out his DNA was used to make you. Your dad, understandably, reacts poorly to attempted blackmail… _really_ poorly…” Gordon shivered. “Then he finds you and you guys get to bond over the new family relationship, and G-Man keeps all the secrets about your immaculate conception in a bank very far away so nobody from Black Mesa can find out about it. That about sum it up?”

“... Yeah.”

“Shit, man.” Gordon stood up. “You want a soda?” He pulled a coke out of the minifridge and passed it over. “You’ve had a hell of a year.”

“That box - it has a bunch of old journals and pictures and notes from my… my childhood. And how I was made. And - all sorts of other secrets, too! Somebody - somebody from Black Mesa must have leaked it, or, uh… Maybe Dr. Straight told somebody before he died. I dunno.” Tommy’s eyebrows scrunched together as he finally reached and read the crossed-out paragraph on the third page. “My dad wants you to…?”

“Yeah.”

“But - you’re not going to, right?”

“Of course not!” Gordon would have shouted if he spoke. “I’m not - I _know_ what they went through! I’m not gonna send them back there just for more…”

“... Yeah.” Tommy sighed, almost relieved. “... He wants me to help him, too.”

“Like, tracking down aliens?” 

“How did you-”

“Tommy. I’m a scientist. Logic is kinda _my thing_ \- finding this box is just a big logic puzzle. It’s like…” Gordon trailed off. “It’s kinda like planning a heist.”

“You - you liked doing that a lot, huh?”

“Yeah. Look where it got me.” Gordon gestured. They sat in silence for a second, letting the consequences of his actions settle into the room nicely. “What other things does he want you to do?”

“He - Uh.” Tommy sounds nervous, which isn’t entirely unusual. He’d been cautious even before The Incident; his self preservation drive had jumped to eleven the day everything changed. Gordon takes a second to react when Tommy doesn't do or say anything, reaching a hand out to rub Tommy’s back. Sunkist plops her head in his lap. 

Tommy’s hand moves to slowly pat Sunkist’s head, blank eyes not seeing the golden fur. It was unsettling. He’d only ever seen Tommy like that… After the military ambush during The Incident.

Gordon didn’t know what had happened back then. They’d been split up from Benrey somehow - a grenade, he thought; something had forced them to dive away and when they got back up, there was no way to get to Benrey. They’d tried going around, but the military had been bearing down on them, and Gordon - 

Something had happened. He stepped around a corner into enemy fire and he was sure he was about to die, but suddenly Tommy was in front of him, then G-Man had been there, and Tommy was on the edge of a panic attack. Gordon was able to talk him through it once the threat had been eliminated but - 

Gordon just kept rubbing Tommy’s back in gentle circles. After a minute he seemed to be doing better, coming back to himself. Gordon grabbed a fresh Coke from the fridge and put it in Tommy’s hand - he cracked it open and chugged it in one go. He seemed pretty revitalized when he was finished.

“Aliens, then.” Gordon signed somberly. “Not the good kind.” Tommy nodded.

“My dad… He, well, he wants to help humanity… but he has others that he - that he’s being paid by, and…” Tommy set down the empty soda can picked up his first one, which was quickly approaching room temperature, and downed it, too. “It means that sometimes, he… He’d rather do what’s right for the forest than - than what’s right for the trees.”

“That still sounds like a whole lotta ‘not your fucking problem’.” Gordon signed. He laughed at Tommy’s surprised expression.

“What - what do you mean? It’s pretty important. Like… a squirrel, building a nut stash. For survival.”

“I mean, yeah, it’s important for humanity, yadda yadda. But like, to you? I dunno, man.” Gordon shrugged. “Your mental well being is more important than whatever the fuck his bosses have him doing. He only hired me to steal a box back… I don’t care about -” Gordon stumbled over his words. “I mean, like, I don’t - I don’t want - I don’t know.”

“Is that why you…” Tommy picked up the contract again.

“Yeah. There’s no way in hell I’m turning them into Black Mesa - no matter what your dad tries to dangle in front of me as a reward. I’m not a little mouse running through a maze! I’m not! I just…”

“It feels…”

“It feels evil, yeah.” Gordon sighed. “And I’ve never been an evil scientist. Maybe a _mad_ scientist-”

“Isn’t - isn’t that what Benrey would call you?”

Oh. Oh yeah, it was. Whenever Benrey would get kicked out of the test chambers or whenever Gordon got frustrated because he got stuck on something, Benrey would…

“I don’t want to think about them.”

“I’m - I mean, you’ve… You’ve been thinking about him a lot.”

“Tommy, don’t call me out like this, man.” Gordon sighed.

“You - you teased me about Darnold earlier!”

“Yeah, but Darnold’s never shot you.”

“To - to be fair, Benrey -”

“I know!” Gordon signed and flipped his arm dramatically. “I know.” He sighed again. “What is reading minds like?”

“Huh?” Tommy put down a weird emerald statuette he’d been messing with. “It’s - it’s like I can see… words, in my head? And I can choose to focus on them or not. So it’s actually like reading - I don’t hear anything.” Tommy brightened as he spoke. “When I’m around somebody a lot, they get their own color!”

“Really? What’s mine?”

“Orange! And - people get fuzzier the further away they are, or smaller, but I can still - I can still choose to focus on them, if I want to. It’s - it can be really funny, sometimes, seeing what - what people mean versus what they say.”

 _Oh, I bet_ , Gordon thought sardonically, remembering their conversation in the park. “So, like, how long have you known that it was…” Oh. He just said he didn’t want to talk about them.

“Since - since before you left the Coomers'. Were you - serious about… ‘killing them back’?”

“I mean.” Gordon gave a gallant shrug. “If I know for sure who did it and why? I might-” Gordon’s phone went off. He pulled it out and looked at the contact - somebody from the police department. He sent them to voicemail and gave Tommy a _look_. It was the same sardonic look he made whenever people tried to call him.

He was _mute_. He didn’t _talk_. Like, come on, people!

“Who was that?” Tommy asked. He’d picked up the little emerald thing again.

“Some cop.” Gordon shrugged. “Probably a random update, or the Glory Seeker stopped by again, or something.”

“Who’s the - what’s a ‘glory seeker’?” 

“It’s like, somebody who wants attention for being a _super crime solver_ but they’re not like, police or journalists or anything. There’s this one guy who keeps stopping by the police department insisting on talking to me - they say somebody died in the bank robbery even though nobody did, stuff like that.” Gordon waved his hand. “Like, they’re just trying to get attention and glory for ‘solving’ a crime they didn’t actually work on.”

“But somebody _did_ die at the bank robbery, Mr. Freeman.” Tommy said after a moment. Gordon looked up from his phone; Tommy was staring at him. “The - the guards did. And… You.”

-

Tommy left a few hours later, in a flurry of hugs and promises to text more often and wet kisses from Sunkist. Gordon stood back, letting them do their thing - apparently, Tommy was practicing teleportation to impress his dad.

“Glad my forgetfulness comes in handy.” Gordon signed before they blinked out of the hotel room. Tommy smiled and waved and looped a finger under Sunkist’s collar, and then they were gone. Gordon stood in his empty hotel room for a second before he sighed and moved to the desk. He couldn’t ignore work just because he wanted to. He had a job to do, after all. And he was getting paid with a dream come true!

He wondered if Dr. Coomer knew about Tommy’s latest project. Harold had always warned him against having operations done at Black Mesa - the cloning project he’d been tricked into had been pretty fucked up. Gordon could trust Tommy not to do anything _bad_ with his new body, but it was Black Mesa. If another scientist got their hands in the pot, things could get ugly, quick.

He supposed that was why Tommy had been assigned the task. It even made some sense. G-Man was a director at Black Mesa; he had more than a pinch of power when it came to who got what project. G-Man could show Tommy open nepotism and Tommy could get more practice doing whatever weird stuff he wanted, plus complete control over the project - and the threat that if anything bad happened to it, the perpetrator would be punished swiftly and cruelly. 

Gordon nodded to himself unconsciously as he fiddled with his phone. He listened to the message - just Generic Cop No. 4 telling him that they’d found something interesting on the bank’s security footage, and that he’d probably want to see it. He did. He should get up and… go see it. But he didn’t.

Each day made it harder to force himself to go to the police station and see those cops. He was just waiting - waiting for the day when one of them noticed him in some security camera he hadn’t avoided well enough before the heist, waiting for a fingerprint or an old contact to give him away. Waiting for the day they called him in under some guise and sprung a trap on him, leading him into some innocuous room with only one exit, an exit he’d be forced through in handcuffs.

He had no doubts that Dr. Coomer would bust him out, but the fear was still there. He’d committed a lot of crimes in the past six months. Wasn’t impersonating an officer a crime, too? So he wasn’t even _done_ being a criminal.

For some reason, that was motivation enough. The idea that he was getting one over on the cops - that they were too stupid, too blind to see that he didn’t belong and that he was, in fact, committing a crime right in front of them was enough to make him get out of his hotel room. He went out the side exit, keeping his eye on the camera as he did. It was a downtown hotel; of course they’d have eyes on all the entrances. 

He’d grabbed one of the bracelets for some reason. Maybe he’d just never taken it out of his jacket pocket? He fingered it as he walked through the downtown streets, avoiding the early bar hopping crowds. He wished he could say his mind was blank, but it wasn’t. Tommy was right. He’d been thinking about Benrey an awful lot lately.

He was so conflicted. His thoughts - his chest - he felt like he was being torn in two. The part of him that wanted to trust Benrey and the part of him that was… scared. Because he was scared. Scared of what Benrey would do if they met again - scared of dying again. A small part of him admitted he was scared of guns, that he jumped whenever something unexpected touched him, that he dodged people aiming for his shoulder because he knew it would send him back to _that moment_. 

It was ironic. He was now terrified of the one thing he’d latched onto as a symbol of security. Benrey had been there through all the shit during The Incident, he’d kept him _safe_ , he protected him in the heists and running and he’d dug a bullet out of Gordon’s hip when the vest hadn’t been long enough to cover him. He’d healed Gordon’s hip… When Gordon woke up in the night, screaming himself hoarse from nightmares, Benrey was the one who calmed him down, patiently, carefully. Every time.

And now Gordon was terrified of seeing him again. There wasn’t another person Gordon trusted as much as he trusted Benrey - as much as he _had_ trusted Benrey. There’s a level of trust that comes from saving somebody’s life and having them save yours back. It just makes the betrayal sting that much more.

What would he do if he saw Benrey again?

It’s a rhetorical question. Benrey is long gone. He’s in South America, or Alaska, or South Korea, or Japan, playing video games and learning languages and immersing himself in a world he’d never been able to experience before. Ignore the fact that he’d been planning on exploring that world with Gordon, and ignore the fact that Gordon had been the one telling him about the world on the road. Benrey was easy to distract. Once Gordon hit the floor, and they delivered that box, he’d be…

He’d be in Dallas. Right in front of Gordon.

Because that’s him, isn’t it? Just down the block, walking away, forcing the crowd to part around him like water breaking on a rocky beach. The same stubborn bullheadedness that he’d always had, that he would always have. That’s him. Gordon recognizes the haircut, the slant of his shoulders as he cards through the crowd, the way he nods at people who move out of his way in thanks. He… _Is Benrey really wearing one of my shirts?_ Gordon pauses in the middle of the sidewalk, watching Benrey take a few more steps. A few more steps away. 

That’s him. Gordon knows before Benrey turns his face to look at the police station. That’s him - Benrey turns just far enough for Gordon to see his profile in the afternoon sun, not far enough to see him - Gordon wonders if he knows. Because that’s him. That’s Gordon’s friend - his _best_ friend - and they’re walking away, and _they don’t know I’m here_. 

He almost says Benrey’s name. He does sign it.

_Would they finish the job? Would they pull out a gun and shoot me dead?_

Somebody walks between them, and Gordon loses sight of Benrey for just an instant - but it’s enough. He must have teleported somewhere. He’s gone. Gordon’s alone, standing in a crowd of strangers, feeling like a voyeur and a cornered rabbit and he doesn’t know where Forzen is, but wherever Benrey is, Forzen is never too far ahead -

Gordon has lived in fear for the past six months. Simmering under the surface, making every decision for him instead of rational thought or logic. Fear for the consequences of his actions and inactions, fear of the unknown, fear of aliens and empty hallways and echoing silence. He’s used to fear. He tried to forget it at the Coomers’ but even with Harold snoring down the hall he’d taken hours to fall asleep, tossing and turning, and here in downtown Dallas he was alone, he didn’t even have Tommy anymore -

The fear crashed on him like a tidal wave.

Benrey had been at the police station before. He hadn’t been hallucinating the Sweet Voice tone. Benrey kept coming to the police station - why? Did he know? Did he know Gordon was working there?

 _"But somebody_ did _die in the bank robbery, Mr. Freeman. The - the guards did. And… you.”_

Benrey was the glory chaser. Benrey had to know. He was the only one-

Gordon didn’t bother with the police station. He knew what waited for him there - cops and aliens and they were all traitors, waiting to lure him into a trap, waiting to take him, alive or dead, take him out of the picture -

He doesn’t know where he’s going until he ends up at the hotel again. Their side entrance camera doesn’t have a redundancy; as long as he cuts the wires cleanly, nobody will know it was him. He doesn’t even have to think before he does it. It’s like second nature.

He needs to move faster, otherwise he’ll lose him. He can’t wait - he can’t run, not from this, not from Dallas and his job, so he has to take Benrey out _first_. If he can take Benrey out, he can track down Forzen, he can get the box back - he can go back home. His head is full of static as he shoves the other bracelets in his pockets, the necklaces, the knock-out stick goes up one sleeve - and Benrey’s mask down the front of his jacket. 

He’s too busy listening to the blood rush in his ears to think about how quickly his heart is beating. His fingers feel like he’s touching the front of an old CRT monitor - the crackle and tingle of restless energy that doesn’t have anywhere to go.

Well, he’ll have an outlet soon. The alleys of Dallas are waiting for him… and he knows them all too well at this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gordon wants a big d*ck. That is all.
> 
> And maybe some therapy. He definitely needs therapy.
> 
> Very sorry for how long this chapter was! I didn't want to split it up, but it's definitely reaching the limit on what I consider "acceptable chapter length". Anything over 6k is probably gonna get split up, depending on how stuff lands. Thank you so much for reading! I can't wait to see everybody next time!


	11. It Walks Among Us

Benrey’s not sure when he realizes that he’s being followed.

He’s just minding his own business, wandering downtown, thinking about the mortuary he’d be breaking into later that night, when he notices it. He’s probably noticed little things before, but because he didn’t really notice them, he couldn’t remember noticing them, so he never noticed them.

Did that make any sense? Whatever.

He’s got his night planned out. He’s got to wait until everybody’s out of the dead people building so he can snatch a body and then make his way back to Elf Tower where the Coomers’ live to plan a funeral. If he can’t find Gordon, he’ll make his way back to the bank and sit in that hallway again. He’s got plans and backup plans for if the weather changes. He never used to make plans. That was Gordon’s job. Now that Gordon was gone… he had to have some kind of backup. Eternity is kind of lonely on your own.

He’s got his little train-track that tells him how the night is gonna go, and he’s riding it up til the next stop, trying simultaneously not to get distracted and also to keep out of his own head because fuck if his thoughts haven’t been depressing lately. It’s probably why he finally notices it when he’s walking around, making people dodge him as he stomps through the crowds.

_That. Mask._

He could explain it away if it was Forzen’s mask. It was autumn: Scarecrows, Halloween, horror movies, whatever. That shit was understandable. More human bullshit he’d never really experienced, but understood in a way. Learned through cultural osmosis.

He could understand if it was Gordon’s mask.

What he couldn’t understand was why he saw _his_ mask, _his_ phrase, everywhere. Did somebody know who he was? … What he had done?

 _Call Your Mother_ slipped into his consciousness like a fish hook baited with caramel. He turned it around in his head, ruminated on it, twisted it this way and that and it wasn’t until he was stopping himself from glancing over his shoulder to get a better look that he realized it. He’d been hooked. He saw it on bank billboards and ticker-tape LED signs and laundromat specials and newspaper headlines. He’d spent the past week wandering through Dallas, his eyes seeing but not processing, brain stuck in the past, stuck on a puzzle. He didn’t _see_ anything. But he still saw _it_ everywhere.

He just didn’t realize it until he saw the mask.

This is why he didn’t pay attention to the world. If he did, he’d have to deal with shit he didn’t want to deal with. Like… Flashbacks. Masks with green paint. Hollow eyes. How long had they been following him? How long had _it_ been following him?

 _Call Your Mother_ _._ It would probably mean more if he had a mother, but he didn’t. Instead, for some reason, it reminded him of all the bad things he’d done. All the shit he’d fucked up, starting small and working to the big ones in a highlights reel of “Bad Benrey Momence,” real life edition.

Like, back at Black Mesa, there was no _way_ he could be considered a good guard. He fucked with the scientists, he fucked with their projects, and he fucked with the directors. The only reason he still had a job there was because he’d started out as a project or whatever the fuck. They couldn’t get rid of him. They didn’t _want_ to get rid of him. That would mean admitting they’d experimented on a real, living, sentient being, and they didn’t want that. They didn’t want the guilt. They just wanted progress!

It’d been a long time since they’d done anything to him, though. The last time he went into an operating room had been just after Gordon got there. He was a person, kinda, with agency, kinda, but they kept him there, under their thumb, like a fucked up pet. Schrodinger’s person. A person until they put him in an operating room.

All that shit had been minor - He didn’t care about them, they didn’t care about him. Hell. They used him as an excuse for when stuff got fucked, even if he’d never done a damn thing to it. Sometimes he did, but not always. It wasn’t like they were targeting him because he was him - it was just. Karma. Diet Karma. They fucked with him, he fucked them back, and he got blamed for shit he didn’t do to make up for some of the shit he did that nobody ever found out about.

He would follow scientists around - sometimes at a distance, sometimes a few feet away, sometimes hiding in a crowd, sometimes he’d even lead the way into the test chambers. Escort missions. He remembered leading Gordon around the complex when he’d first shown up. He was the only one free - Coomer was working, Bubby was working or some shit, Tommy was up Darnold’s ass, and Gordon was set to work with Kleiner in Sector C. Somebody had to show the little intern around. Benrey would be a leader.

_Call Your Mother.  
_

He’d fucked up a few of Tommy’s projects over the years. That was something he actually felt a bit guilty about. He’d ruined - uh - at least two prototype Sunkist’s. Fanta and Orange Crush. The less that was said about Orangina, the better. Tommy had forgiven him, of course. But he started working somewhere else until it was too late for Benrey to interfere again. That one… kinda stung.

 _What is it with you and fucking up yellow projects?_

Then he’d ruined another one of Tommy’s big projects and Gordon took the fall. He felt really guilty about that one. He felt guilty that Gordon got blamed for it - got fired - but he didn’t feel guilty for fucking up an alien project. There was no need for more alien projects at Black Mesa. They didn’t need a working teleporter to get their hands on more alien DNA or whatever to make more like him and Forzen and Kruhger.

_You were the first one in the test chamber that day, weren’t you?_

All he did was move a yellow crystal a little bit. He didn’t know it would cause a fukken meltdown. A fuckin’... Portal Tornado. Screwing everything up from the inside out. They got their alien DNA anyway, probably, considering how many creatures from… _there_ … came through.

_It almost makes up for how many aliens got out!_

Now, after six months and Gordon had passed, he felt guilty about it. Up until the middle of September he hadn’t cared. He had Gordon with him! They were on the road having fun and they didn’t have to worry about _work_ or _pay_ or _benefits_. The only thing Gordon had to worry about was his meds, and a few back-alley bribes took care of that one pretty reliably. No, he’d been happy with his circumstances until Forzen decided to put a bullet in Gordon. It wasn’t like Gordon deserved -

 _Call Your Mother_. They were getting closer. He couldn’t think about Gordon right now.

He caught a corner, taking a hard left into an alleyway, slowing down when he was out of the crowd. If that mask wanted him… it could come and _get_ him. He didn’t look over his shoulder. He listened, carefully, and used reflections when he could, like a spy. The mask followed, jostled into the alleyway mouth like a bullied nerd. 

_Call Your Mother_. Where was his mask? What had he done with it after the last heist?

He’d been too concerned with Gordon’s things to keep track of his own shit. He couldn’t remember where he dropped it, just that it hadn’t made it back to the hotel - _motel_ \- with him and Forzen. Now he was being haunted by a mask and bad memories that -

 _Call Your Mother_. Gordon. The last heist.

His arm whipped out, catching whatever the fuck was in trajectory to catch his wrist a second before it landed. He didn’t know how he knew it was there, he just did. His senses were on fire, high alert, like a Code Yellow or worse in Black Mesa, when he had to keep his eyes out for anything that might get him first. Headcrabs, zombies, bigger badder aliens. He always came back. Wished he could say the same for Gordon. He gripped and twisted his enemy’s wrist.

Because they were his enemy. What did they expect, coming after _him_ in _that mask_?

He threw his attacker against a wall, pinning them face-down against the bricks with one growing hand, using his body to press them flat. 

“You’ve got ten seconds to tell me where the fuck you got that mask before I rip it and your face off.” Benrey said. His voice was still… monochrome. There wasn’t inflection. Just bland anger. He’d used all of his anger up against Forzen, but he had a feeling it would come back easy tonight, looking at that fucking mask.

He could feel his enemy’s heartbeat pick up, but they didn’t _do_ anything. Just. Frozen. Stuck against the brick, their one arm twisted behind them, their other moving weakly - well, weak compared to Benrey - against the brick wall. Benrey didn’t like being ignored. He wanted _attention_. He wanted it _now_. It was the least this idiot could give him, chasing him with bad memories like he was. He pulled his left hand free and laid it, palm flat, against the bricks in front of his attacker’s turned face.

“Ten.” He couldn’t see the eyes through the mask, but he’d make sure to get their attention and keep it. He pulled his hand back and made a fist, then punched the wall right in front of the mask’s face. The mask protected his attacker from the spray of dust and debris. This close, he could see the little crack he’d repaired after that hit to the head. It looked like some of the paint had peeled off around it.

It was definitely the same one he’d worn in the heist. He felt another surge of anger at that. This - who the _fuck_ did this person think they were? They didn’t have permission to just take whatever the fuck they found. They - it would almost be better if they’d just ripped off his creative expression, but no. They’d fucked around and taken his mask and even though he wanted to leave it in the past, he wanted it back. He wanted to _destroy_ it. 

Normally he pushed anger down whenever it came up. He didn’t like the way he felt when he indulged in it. Normally. This wasn't a normal night.

The person - probably a man? Benrey couldn’t tell - was frozen. Stuck in place against the brick like they’d been duck taped there. This guy was either fearless or stupid. Benrey slowly pulled his hand back, shaking the crumbs off, flexing his hand slowly. Showing off how unbothered he was by punching bricks. Then he grabbed the back of the idiot's head with his brick-hand, his other one finally letting go of their shoulder, and he grabs where the mask straps met. It’s soft - plush. He’s able to get a good grip, good enough - “Nine.” - to slam his attacker’s face into the bricks.

That does it. Hard reboot - _Percussive Maintenance,_ Gordon says in the back of his head, using words that are too long for normal conversation like he always does - and his enemy moves. There’s something silver in his hand - Benrey jumps back, using the idiot as a springboard to push away. The alley is just wide enough for a car to go down. He’s got a few feet of distance. 

The person drops to their knees, coughing, holding their throat - sounds rough. Too bad, so sad. Benrey keeps an eye out for whatever that silver thing was, though. It had to be small, small enough to hide in the shadow of their chin, because he couldn't see it anymore.

His attacker does something with his wrists, but Benrey doesn’t bother paying attention. His fists are busy turning into claws - didn’t they know they were bringing a knife to a fist fight? “Not cool, bro.” The mask freezes. “Eight.” Benrey widened his stance, striking a rough approximation of a fighting pose. The mask turned to look at him, hovering over a black jacket and black pants and black boots. One of the lenses looked… loose. A bit more knocking and he’d be able to see their eyes. He tried not to think about how good that sounded.

They tried to get to their feet, defensive, like a cat skirting away from Big Dog Benrey, trying to angle back down the alleyway so they could run. Run away. Run back where they’d come from, with crowds and people and drunks. They probably thought they’d have an easy time taking out the dazed and spaced dude in the bad part of town, and because it was too hard, they were running away like a little piss baby.

He had half a mind to let them go. They’d learned their lesson.

But he really, _really_ fucking hated that mask.

“Seven!” He shouted. It echoed in the alleyway. He kicked a brick at his feet, almost grinning when it went wide like he wanted it to. He wasn’t trying to hit the guy, just scare him. It wasn't like he'd moved _far_.

It worked. The guy froze again, almost tripping over his feet. He was trapped between a rock and a hard place, hands twitching like stutters, legs shifting in place. Benrey scuffed his boots against the ground; they were the good steel toed ones. All the better to kick your teeth in with, my dear.

The mask took off, running to the other end of the alley, stumbling over debris. Benrey leaned forward, focusing on where he should zip to, his brain doing little calculations based on speed and width and collision course - Gordon would have been proud.

When he teleports, he’s expecting a startled scream - another freeze - he’s half hoping the idiot trips over their own feet and hits the dirt. None of that happens.

“Si-!” His enemy has disappeared.

 _Forzen._ It’s Forzen, he’s back - he’s found Benrey and he’s going to eat him - he’s brought Kruhger or The Thousands or Gore and he’s going to die before he finds out what happened to Gordon - _Gordon’s body-_

Something catches his ankle and his balance is gone. Face, meet _dirt_. He doesn’t like being in the dirt. He doesn’t like this - he can’t lose - He can’t let his friend down -

He scrambles up and away, looking over his shoulder where he can hear more scrabbling. The attacker - covered in dirt and grime - is also jumping to his feet. He’d…

His enemy had seen him teleport, and instead of freaking out, he’d ducked and slid between his legs.

The Thousands it is, then. They were the only ones who couldn’t teleport, and there was no way this was _Gore_.

The body gets up, dusting off it’s pants - it’s such a nonsensical thing to worry about that Benrey almost laughs. Almost giggles. But then he’s on his feet, running after his attacker, his limbs growing, elongating, spaghettifying in his clothes. Physical bodies were hard when he was filled with this much - 

Hostility? Anger? _Rage_? Whatever. Emotions were bullshit, anyway.

The idiot was losing traction and steam. Benrey was on him in an instant it felt like, closer to the other end of the alleyway than he thought they would be. He wrapped an arm around waist, then dug his hand into the back of their head again. He got _real_ close, close enough that if he _was_ Gore or Kruhger or Forzen he could have ripped their throat open, his claws or teeth tearing through the soft flesh like wet clay…

“Five.” He would think he was bored if he couldn’t feel the thrum of blood in his veins, his fake heart pumping like a drum.

The body hadn’t made a noise. It panted, but it wasn’t the same thing as a scream or a groan or a grunt. Benrey wanted to hear them, hear them scream and regret their life’s choices. He wanted to… Pass on the pain. A nice little gift, an inheritance that came with the mask. Benrey’s hand gripped tighter around their midsection, pushing out a high-pitched, breathy wheeze. He knew the bodies The Thousands used could do more than that. What were they waiting for?

Whatever. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t Kruhger or Forzen or Gore. He didn’t play with his enemies.

… He wasn’t _like_ them. He’d never be _like_ them again.

“Four-Three-Two-One.” Benrey got tired of counting down. It was clear that he’d won. Little knives couldn’t do anything to him, and the wimp was caught, struggling against his wrists, tugging at them - there was no way he’d be able to break Benrey’s hold, but he sure was trying! Benrey loosened up a little bit. The would-be attacker could breathe a bit easier.

Was it really an attack when Benrey was like, in God mode? The difference between intent and execution, maybe. He pulled his enemy to the side, out of the middle of the alley and towards one of the walls, and his finger ghosted over the edge of the mask as he trailed down, skirting the body’s jaw. Then he grabbed the edge of the yellowed mask and _pulled_. 

It was like ripping off a bandaid - painful and satisfying, catching stray hairs, ripping them out. The beanie came off somehow too, caught in the elastic straps and force and friction and Benrey didn’t know, but when it came off it brought all this hair with it - slightly curly, ripped free from the bun it’d been wrapped up in. That’s what he’d held earlier - made a great little handle.

Hair spilled over his hands as he tried to turn the would-be attacker around without letting go of him. His hand dug into the body’s shoulder and he twisted and shoved. It was definitely a him - or it had been, before The Thousands got a hold of them. He could see a beard now that the mask was gone. He dropped the mask and pushed them against the brick, face up this time. His hand stayed on their shoulder, gripping - not too tight. Just tight enough so he couldn’t move. 

There was a red welt on their forehead from the bash against the wall, and dirt smudged along the edge where the mask had ended. Good. They deserved worse; they deserved to bleed and lay in the dirt. They were frowning - the frown pulled at his beard and the little - the little mouth-frame thing he had going on. Green eyes met his.

Green like the triangle on a PS3 controller. Green like Go. Green like -

“ _Gordon_?” Benrey’s voice is quieter than he’d ever been before, even on purpose. Movie-theater quiet. Spy-mission quiet. Heist-recon quiet.

Funeral quiet.

Gordon doesn’t move. Neither does Benrey, honestly. He can’t believe his fucking eyes.

Gordon Freeman, PhD. Graduated top of his class from the nerdiest school imaginable. Only bought platformers and puzzle games with whimsical features because he didn’t really like gritty first-person shooters, even if he played them sometimes with Benrey and Forzen. Picked up every glossy science journal magazine he could get his hands on, then complained for hours about how it was just navel-gazing for people who weren’t actually scientists, how it was just flash and dazzle with no substance. Gordon Freeman, 27 years old. No… He would have been 28 now. His birthday had been the week after…

After he’d died. After he’d been left alone in a bank. He’d died and come back to life and had a birthday -

Unless he’d never died. Unless Forzen had lied to him. Forzen was the type to wound and maim and let them bleed out. Had Benrey left Gordon in a bank, bleeding out, because he’d believed Forzen? Had Gordon been scared? Scared because Benrey wasn’t there?

Benrey’s hands flew to Gordon’s forehead, searching for a scar or a bullet hole or. Anything. He gently ran his fingers over the red welt on his forehead. Gordon was unusually compliant, letting Benrey take his chin and tilt him up and down and all around so he could see the top of Gordon’s head-

Wait, hadn’t he been taller a second ago? Whatever.

He tried to sing his Sweet Voice, trying to summon his Healing Beam, but it took longer than it should. He wanted it now. Where was it when he needed it? He reached for it, straining past what his body could do, until he finally felt the flicker in the back of his throat. Maybe his anger was keeping it at bay? He focused on Gordon’s green eyes - not a fleck of blue in ‘em - and it was like a balm on his soul, but his anger had already died when he saw Gordon’s eyes again.

Why couldn’t he use his Sweet Voice, then? So… _frustrating_. He hummed to himself in the back of his throat, trying to push out just a little bit, just a note - just an _orb_ …

Something grabbed his wrist, and he realized Gordon was looking at him again. He felt the Sweet Voice die in his throat as he opened his mouth to say something, anything, only to get punched in the solar plexus. He coughed up one orb of Teal-Green.

“G-Gordon…” Benrey groaned, falling. He could take it - he’d taken worse hits. Why did this one hurt so much? 

Maybe because it was Gordon.

“Don’t touch me.” Gordon signed. Fear… He was afraid. Why?

 _Oh, you know, maybe it’s because you left me for dead, or because you just beat the shit out of me, or it could also be because I’ve been terrified of everything that goes bump for the past six months, you_ know _that, Benrey._ Gordon’s voice is as irritated as ever. He can almost imagine it’s the man in front of him speaking. 

He was right, though. Benrey was… just not used to Gordon being afraid of him. He actually kinda-really hated the way he felt right now.

Oh, the Sweet Voice works _now_? Pomegranate spews out of his mouth, mixing with _light grey to light blue means I missed you!_ It roughly translates to _I’m sorry for your leaving_ , and Benrey knows Gordon can read Sweet Voice, but he hopes he’s forgotten in the past three weeks because he doesn’t want Gordon to carry the burden of those emotions, not when Forzen is the one who killed him in the first place. 

Something jerks on his wrist and he stumbles, twisting and sliding in the dirt, when did he get down here? What is that thing? He almost thinks it’s a knife, something to cut his hand off with, when he feels the cool metal against his skin, but that thought is kicked out of his head as quickly as it popped in. Gordon didn’t collect knives, Forzen did. And… Gordon was never the type for torture.

He feels something circle his wrist and click into place. Huh. Friendship bracelet? In his dreams, maybe. It matched the one on his other wrist. When had that got there?

He can’t help but notice just how bad Gordon’s shaking. It’s like he’s on the edge of a panic attack or something, and yeah, Benrey’s probably the reason for that, but he didn’t hurt Gordon _that_ much! What did he expect, coming after him in that mask?

Oh, that’s right! The mask! Benrey coughs a bit more, letting go of Gordon’s hand - were they holding hands or was Gordon just holding him at bay? - and tilts over to pick it up, still on his knees in the dirt. Gordon jumps, moving away, like he’s going to make another run for it. Benrey looks up, just in time to see something slide out of Gordon’s sleeve.

What? Why… Why did Gordon have… one of _those_?

“Gordon?” He rasped. “Why…” Gordon looked between him and the stick, where it had bounced and landed, just a step away from Gordon, between them, pointing at Benrey. 

Benrey lurched. He had to get it before -

Gordon was quicker. Benrey’s body wasn’t moving right, it wasn’t like normal when it listened to his commands instantly. It was like he’d had _Slow_ cast on him, like he was moving through soup.

 _Chicken Noodle?_ Gordon’s hand wraps around the handle, switching the flip, making electricity arc in jagged yellow sparks. It’s all Benrey can focus on. He’d been entranced by green eyes - now he was paralyzed by plasma.

The Gordon he knew would never have one of those, let alone turn it on, let alone _brandish_ it. Something had changed.

 _He died -_ I _died. Remember?_

Ice cold blood swirled in Benrey’s veins. He - he actually kinda understood Gordon, now. He didn’t want to run - he didn’t want to leave him alone - but he didn’t want to fight him. He couldn’t grow, he couldn’t teleport, he couldn’t fight, he couldn’t run, and he didn’t understand _why_. He felt powerless.

A tense moment passed. All Benrey could hear was the rush of blood in his ears and the buzz of electricity coming from that _fucking_ stick.

“... Why… Why do you have that?” Benrey asked. He sounded scared. “Where’d ya get it?”

Gordon’s eyes flickered between him and the stick. Benrey fought the urge to back up, back down the alleyway, away from that - the pain that stick could cause. Gordon’s knuckles went white, gripping the stick so hard it shook again. He took one hand off to sign - shaking -

“Protection.”

“Protection from what?” Benrey asked sardonically, half a beat before his brain caught up to him.

Oh.

“From me? Feetman, you know I’d never hurt you -” Benrey reached out. Mistake. Big mistake.

The rod came down on the back of his hand. He was paralyzed again, electricity coursing over him, making his skin come alive in ways he hadn’t felt since - since before he’d met Gordon. He could feel something inside him fighting to come out, but he couldn’t - his hands weren’t working, his body wasn’t reshaping the way he needed it to. God, what was _wrong_ with him?

“Don’t come any closer!” Gordon’s hands were shaking as he signed. He looked like he was about to cry. His eyes kept flickering between the stick and Benrey like he was about to do something terrible. Like he’d _done_ something terrible.

He… he was terrified. Terrified of Benrey. After everything Benrey had done - everything Benrey was _doing_ for him - Gordon was -

_“He was a fucking snitch. Just waiting for the call to turn us back in again.”_

No. Forzen was wrong.

 _“Tell me, then, why the fuck the scientist from the_ alien rock _lab would follow around two_ aliens _willingly?”_

Because Benrey had _asked!_ There’s no way-

_“Gordon had to be working for them.”_

Forzen was _wrong!_

 _Then why was Gordon here with one of_ their _weapons?_

“You’re really gonna take me back there?” Benrey asked, his voice rough with - something. Some emotion he didn’t want to think about. His pulse still beat with electrified ice, making him jittery, like he’d been stuck in the cold for days. _Forzen was right._

… Forzen was always right.

“Fine! I’ll make it easy. I’ll go down smooth. No fuss, no _mess_ -” Benrey lurched. His body barely moved the way he wanted it to, like he was being held down by some intangible force, like gravity was increasing on him. He flew hand-first towards the light.

“No-!” Gordon’s voice - fucked up as it was, panicked as it was - was music to Benrey’s ears. He hadn’t heard it for weeks. He had missed the low chuckles, the giggling shrieks, the surprised laughter - even the terrified whimpers and the horrified screams. He hadn’t heard any of it for weeks and _god_ , how he missed it. He missed Gordon so much.

He didn’t even have to touch the rod to feel the electricity. It jumped through the air to his paralyzed hand, freezing his body in place, hand outstretched like a beggar, like a dog being taught to shake. It took every ounce of willpower left in him to finish the move, to reach forward and _grip._ He gripped the baton so tightly, there was no way he was ever letting go. His eyes shut, following the rest of his face as it contorted in a grimace.

 _I’ll make it easy for you,_ he thought. _I'll make it so easy to take me out of the picture, if that’s what you want. Nice little box, nice little compliant - fucking. You’ll be free of me._

He might feel Gordon fumbling with the stick, he might feel his arms jostle and pull as Gordon tries to get him to release. He might feel the electricity suddenly stop when Gordon remembers there’s a switch he can flip, finally cutting the current. He might feel his body hit the dirt again.

Benrey doesn’t, though. He’s been too strung out - still healing, still punishing himself for sins he couldn’t keep count. He hadn't eaten in days, not willing to break his investigation or vigil. He feels emptier than he ever has. Not even losing his tentacle to Forzen felt this bad - it was like he'd been drained. A vessel emptied, a whiteboard wiped clean. The first-of-the-month bulletin board cleanup, Benrey edition. But instead of being emptied for new and exciting things, he was just empty.

It’s just seconds after his eyes close that he passes out, exhaustion and pain forcing him into a void. It’s the first time he’s slept since Gordon died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news! I got a promotion! Bad news! I got a promotion!
> 
> It's one of those, "Not what I want out of life, but I make more money, so it's worth it" kind of things. You know, the things we all have to deal with. So updates are probably going to slow down. I have a few definite dates in mind - I want to have this story finished by October. We'll see if that happens! It's been what, four months? And we're around 1/3 of the way through? I'm sure we'll be _fine_.
> 
> Let me know if any typos or errors got away from me. I'm trying to go over this with a fine-tooth comb but it's an hour past my bedtime!


End file.
